Harhvick Ihorpe 

awl ihi Sfoty of 



"Curfew Stall NotRm* 
J Tonirfkt^ 




T hA H\ 






aM 



**'*■ 






GEORGE WHARTON JAMES 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 

AND THE STORY OF 

"CURFEW SHALL NOT RING 
TONIGHT" 




The Souvenir Bell of porcelain, an exact fac-simile of the Curfew- 
bell, with wood erf clapper made from the old oaken beams 
that for 700 years supported the bell in the tower of Chertsey 
Abbey, -near London, England. 






Rose Hartwick at 16 years of age, just before 
she wrote "Curfew Shall Not Ring To- 
night." 



Rose Hartwick at 19 years of age, about the 
time when "Curfew" was first published in 
the Detroit Commercial Advertiser. 




ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 

AND THE STORY OF 

"CURFEW MUST NOT RING 
TO-NIGHT" 

BY 

GEORGE WHARTON JAMES 

With the Poem 

and Its Original Illustrations and Music for 

Public Recitation. 




THE RADIANT LIFE PRESS 

ioq8 N. Raymond A^e. 
Pasadena, Cal. 



"ft ' 



Copyright iqi6 
By" EDITH E. FARNSWORTH 

Entered also at 
Stationer's Hall, London, Eng. 



'tjtl 



ICI.A457332 



FEB 19 1917 

"Uo / ■ 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 

AND THE STORY OF 

"CURFEW MUST NOT RING 
TO-NIGHT" 




HO is there that has not read "Curfew Must Not Ring 
Tonight"? Or if he has not read it, has not heard it quoted or 
referred to as familiarly as household words? It has been trans- 
lated into scores of tongues. It has been recited in every school, 
lyceum, and pulpit throughout the English-speaking world. It 
has been parodied a score of times, by as many different humor- 
ists ; and nothing is parodied that is not already familiarly 
known. 

And, strange to say, this world-popular ballad was not writ- 
ten by a master of English verse, one who had already won his laurels, but by 
a sixteen-year-old schoolgirl, devoid of any education save that afforded by 
the "little red schoolhouse" of the American country side, and gained in a 
home where books were as rare, scarce, and precious as jewels and diamonds, 
and far more treasured. 

As far as I know, the full story of this ballad has never been told, so I 
am glad to have the opportunity of presenting the account as it was recently 
given to me by its author, Rose Hartwick Thorpe, at her present home in 
San Diego, California. 

Her father was one of the pioneers in the new country of Northern 
Indiana and there, at Mishawka, Rose was born. She had two brothers and 
two sisters, her place being second in the list. She can trace her ancestry back 
many, many generations to that merry king, celebrated in song and story : 

Old King Cole was a merry old soul; 
And a merry old soul was he. 

The name originally was Coil, but in time became known as Cole. Her 
father's mother was Elinor, whose parents early brought her to Canada, and 
one of the treasured possessions of the family to this day is the Coat of Arms 
of the Coles, which clearly indicates the kingly descent claimed. 

Yet far prouder than of her distinguished and more remote ancestry is 
her feeling of pride in her grandfather, who united with the noble patriots 
who fought against the tyranny of England and demanded freedom for them- 
selves and their sons. 

The first ten years of Rose's life were happily spent at Mishawka. Her 
father must have been fairly well-to-do, for her remembrances are that every 
reasonable wish was gratified, and there were no severe hardships to encounter. 
Then came disaster. Her father became security for some one who failed, 
and he was called upon to make good the deficiency. It completely ruined 
him. Disheartened and discouraged, he sought a new field of labor and enter- 
prise in the new country of Kansas, where his wife's brother had already 



6 Rosa Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 

located. This move merely added misfortune to disaster. It was the year 
of the great drought. Other States were called upon to assist the starving 
people and Rose well recalls the beans and corn-meal that were sent in, and 
that formed the chief articles of their diet. To this day she has no relish for 
either food, so distasteful did they become in their monotonous regularity in 
those weeks of wretchedness and hardship. 

At last her father felt anything was better than the bare existence they 
were eking out in Kansas, and as there were other brothers and sisters in 
Michigan, he decided to go there. How he got there has always been a mys- 
tery to Mrs. Thorpe, for she is perfectly sure he had no money to go with, 
but in a very short time, she, her mother, brothers and sisters were cheered 
and delighted by the presence of one of her uncles, who had come to "pack 
them up" and earn' them away back to Michigan. Here a house was found 
by one, furniture by another, clothing and groceries by another, until the needy 
ones could find themselves once more, and thus began Rose's life at Litchfield, 
Michigan, which she was soon to make famous in history. Her father was a 
first-class tailor, unafraid and unashamed to work, yet it was a pretty hard 
struggle to keep things going by the activity of his needle. Hence it can well be 
imagined there were no unnecessary luxuries provided for Rose and her brothers 
and sisters in the Litchfield days. Neither did any one know or care what their 
ancestry was. The deeds of today are what win respect and the friendliness 
of neighbors. The Hartwicks were good neighbors, and so had good neigh- 
bors in return ; hence, when Rose, a growing girl, desired to expand her 
reading, she was allowed to borrow the few scant books and magazines they 
possessed. Her only books in those days were the Bible, a small school diction- 
ary, and her school reader. There was a frame schoolhouse, of course, and 
thither Rose went daily with her brothers and sisters and companions. But, 
while a genuine youngster, enjoying all the sports of her fellows, there was 
something in her a little different from the others. Her mother noticed it, 
for she often spoke of Rose's habit of "making up" poetry about her dolls, 
which she would recite to them. 

When Rose was about eleven years of age, a niece of her mother came to 
live with them so that she might attend their high school, which had a great 
local reputation. Rose was then in the primary grade. One evening as she 
sat by the fire, writing diligently on her slate, her cousin bent over it and 
inquired: "What are you doing." "Writing poems," was the reply. "The 
idea!" was the scornful response from the young miss, more advanced in years 
and scholarship. "You can't write poems. Let me see!" After she had satis- 
fied herself, she exclaimed: "Rosie, you never wrote that. You copied it. 
Listen, Aunt Mary, Rosie says she wrote this." And she read the lines aloud 
to her aunt. Then turning to her half-scared, half-defiant cousin, she chal- 
lenged: "If you really wrote that, write a poem about me." This was just 
what Rose wanted, and she proceeded to write some rhymed lines about her 
cousin, which, when completed, she triumphantly read. "And," said Mrs. 
Thorpe, in telling the story years after to the friend who told me, "I don't 
know that I evoked more satisfaction in any of my later work than that which 
I felt when Cousie Abbie turned to my mother and said: 'Well, Aunt Mary, 
I guess she wrote that other poem.' " 

The result of this triumph was soon to prove to the young versifier the 
truth of the aphorism that the reward of good work is the opportunity to do 
more work, for the students of the high school were in the habit of having a 
"speaking" each month, and one of the expected "pieces" was a "pome'' con- 



Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 

taining local hits, puns and the like. Abbie called upon Rosie to exercise her 
gifts for this paper, and thereafter every month, for quite a time, she was the 
real, though generally uncredited, poet of these occasions. 

When I think of the many pleasures, recreations, and amusements pro- 
vided for the young people of our day, whether in city or country, I ask myself 
what would they do were they suddenly thrust back into the life of the youths 
and maidens of fifty years ago in the pioneer country settlements. Homes far 
apart, books few, newspapers rare, magazines rarer still, few musical instru- 
ments of any kind, few concerts, lectures, or other forms of amusement most 
common nowadays, how would they fill up their spare time, how pass the 
hours, how endure the tedium of the daily task. 

In Rose Hartwick's home the children grew up under the prevalent 
restricted and restricting conditions. But Rose herself lived largely in a world 
of her own. Impressionable, with an intense nature, feeling every- emotion 
keenly and deeply, easily stirred, every book or magazine she could get hold of 
stimulated her imagination and peopled her world with the creations of her 
brain. About the time of her fifteenth birthday some one gave her a copy of 
Byron's poems. This opened up a wealth of new associations. She traveled 
in that intense world of the imagination all the countries visited by Childe 
Harold: she associated with the scores of strange and hitherto unknown 
people pictured by the poet's genius. Possessing the dramatic instinct, the 
growing girl, the feelings of dawning womanhood stirring within her, became 
the characters of which she read. Books were so rare, and especially books 
of poetry, that she read and re-read every poem until their every line was 
familiar to her. She knew every thought of every actor in every poem. She 
saw each scene as distinctly as though it were her father's back-yard. What 
though she pictured incorrectly? That she saw things through the glamour 
of romance? It was the glorification of her life, the enlargement of her 
world, the making of a cosmopolite out of the little country girl. 

In those days periodical literature was much more restricted than it is 
today, there being but few magazines in the field. One of these was Peterson's. 
It had the usual pages devoted to women's fashions and matters supposed to 
be dear to the woman's heart; had a fair sprinkling of tolerable poetry and 
enough fiction to make it interesting, with occasional essays, political, social, 
historical and otherwise. 

Their neighbor, Dr. Coston, who lived directly across the dusty road of 
the country town, in a house glorified with a row of maple trees, was a regu- 
lar subscriber and Rose was privileged to borrow each month's issue as soon 
as the family had finished reading it. But she was a voracious reader, and 
soon the current issues were not enough to supply her needs. Back numbers 
were just as good as current ones. They fed the imagination just as well one 
month as another. So, one day, when all her regular tasks were done, she 
asked her mother if she might go over to Dr. Coston's for another magazine. 
The consent was readily given and Rose tripped out on what was the most 
memorable call of her life. How great events hang on seemingly trivial 
actions. Who could have dreamed that this merry, happy, dancing, yet far- 
eyed, thoughtful child, skipping over the dusty road, receiving the gray- 
covered magazine with a sparkle of gratitude in each eye, and a careful hand- 
ling of it that was almost a reverence, was stepping through the doorway of 
a fame accorded to few even of the great writers of our English tongue ? Yet 
it was so, for in the pages of that magazine was the story that was to stir 
maiden Rose's heart to the writing of "Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight." 



8 Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 

I hold this magazine in my hands as I write. Its cover is plain almost 
to ugliness, and compared with the gaudy, many-colored "artistic" magazine 
covers of today would be esteemed "positively hideous." Yet in those days 
people were not so much influenced by exterior prepossessiveness as by the 
worth of the contents. This issue is dated, September, 1865. On page 185 is 
the beginning of a story headed "Love and Loyalty," and it is "By a new Con- 
tributor," so we do not know — and perhaps never will know — by whom it was 
written. It is a story of ten pages in length, and had it not been for the effect 
of the poem that was soon to be born from its perusal, would perhaps never 
have been heard of again in the world. It is a fairly well written story 
in somewhat of the style of a bye-gone age, such a story as few editors of 
modern magazines would be likely to accept and publish. Yet so satisfied am I 
that many persons would like to read it that I have had the pages photo- 
graphed and reproduced in exact facsimile of the original, with Mrs. Thorpe's 
annotation on the first page that this is the story that led to the writing of her 
memorable poem. 

The effect of this story upon the young school girl was marvelous. That 
night the various scenes in the drama were enacted again and again in her 
dreams. She saw the child Bessie, living at Underwood Hall, the pet and 
plaything of all the family, educated almost as one of the baron's own children. 
She gasped in a spasm of loyalty as she imagined the feelings of the grown-up 
maiden, Bessie, when King Charles appeared at the Hall and smiled upon 
her. She let her heart go out in love to the old baron and his lady, that they 
allowed their son Basil to make honorable love to Bessie, with the hope that 
one day she would be the mistress of the Hall, and the mother of their son's 
children. Then she shivered with terror as she imagined the country overrun 
with the Puritan soldiers, the hall deserted, and Basil, her lover, in camp with 
the Cavaliers. Civil war in all its horrors visaged itself before her. Then 
she thrilled (child in body though she was), as her imagination pictured for 
her the tenderness of the meetings of Basil and Bessie, in her forester father's 
home in the woods, where, in spite of the active Puritans, he often found him- 
self. And anon she cried in her sleep when the old forester died, and in 
dying commended his sweet child to the care and keeping of her lover. 

Then, ah then, she saw Basil, leaving Bessie, overtaken by a horseman 
who insisted upon riding with him ; saw them arrested as spies ; taken before 
the stern commander; tried by the Puritan Council, and placed in jeopardy of 
their lives. And how she cried in sympathy and felt her heart beat high in 
response to the daring and courage of Bessie, who went before the Council and 
pleaded for the life of her lover, clearly showing that he could not have been 
a spy, and corroborating his story as to not having seen the real spy until very 
shortly before their arrest. And sobs again came from her as she slept and 
heard in her vivid dream the judgment of the stern Council that, in spite 
of Bessie's testimony, Basil should die that night when Curfew sent its doleful 
sound over the land. 

Then how her heart leaped with Bessie's when she saw her hastening 
toward the camp of Cromwell, to whom she was going to appeal for the sake 
of his old friendship for her father, to believe her story and save her lover. 
And her heart sank with Bessie's as she heard the stern sentinel tell the eager 
maiden that Cromwell would not return until long after the hour of Curfew's 
tolling. Now she felt all the agony of despair, until a fresh leap of hope came 
when Bessie thought of going to the sexton of the Abbey, where hung the 
Curfew bell, and pleading with him not to ring Curfew until Cromwell had 



Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 9 

returned and given her the opportunity to plead for her lover's life. And 
again she felt the griping pangs of hopelessness as the stern old sexton responded 
to Bessie's pleading with the harsh reply: "Child, take your gold and jewels. 
All my life of service Curfew has rung as surely as the sun has set. Not even 
to save your lover's life dare I set aside this ancient custom!" 

Ah ! then she felt the heart-questionings of Bessie. Was she to see her 
lover die? Was there no hope?. Was there no possible way of averting his 
fate? And as the answer came it produced a joy that was twin sister to pain 
in its suffocating ecstasy. As the sexton swung open the door and turned 
towards the belfrv rope she saw Bessie spring in, and dashing up the slimy 
and foul steps of the tower, hasten with breathless speed towards the belfry 
above. Just as she saw her on the platform over which the bell swung, the 
sexton began to pull the rope. Slowly the wheel revolved, and in another 
moment the clapper would have tolled out the first note of Curfew, when 
Bessie grasped it, and, her lover's life depending upon the firmness of her 
hold, she saw her swing out into space as she sobbed out: "Curfew must not, 
shall not, ring tonight." And how she rejoiced with Bessie, even in her thrill- 
ing danger, as she swung to and fro, that the old sexton's deaf ears could not 
warn him that no sound was coming from the bell as the result of his labor. 
When the swinging of the bell had ceased she saw, with streaming eyes, poor 
Bessie, faint and white with pain, look at her bruised and bleeding hands and 
arms where they had been cruelly dashed upon the brazen circle of the bell. 
Then she saw the loving maiden, tottering and uncertain of step, find her way 
down the belfry stairs, and again wend her way to Cromwell's camp, meet 
the great general, tell her story, show her bruised and injured hands, and plead 
with him for her lover's life. And what joy soothed her sympathetic little 
soul, even though it was all in her dreams, when she saw Cromwell write 
and sign the mandate that bade his soldiers let Basil Underwood go free. 

Think of a maiden's slumber haunted by visions like these; try to realize 
the emotions that chased each other through her tender heart. Recall that 
she was naturally prone to express her thoughts in verse. Yet remember also, 
that she was but a child, scarce budded into maidenhood, and that her parents 
were so poor that the slate was the only means they could provide her with 
for writing down the lines that clamored for expression within her. 

When morning came her mother saw that her eyes were still heavy, as 
though she had either slept little, or her sleep had been disturbed with haunt- 
ing dreams. Knowing her child's tendency to write in preference to study- 
ing her lessons she cautioned her to give special heed to the commands of her 
teacher, hence, when she came back home at night and told her mother that 
the teacher had had to rebuke her for her inattention, she was not surprised 
that her mother urged her, with more than usual fervor, to leave all reading 
that night; forbade her writing any "poetry," and insisted that all the evening 
be spent on mastering the neglected arithmetic lessons. 

Remorsefully and perfectly in accord with her mother's commands — for 
Rose knew that the rebukes of teacher and mother were justified — she promised 
obedience, and sat down by the fireside, earnestly and sincerely desirous of 
doing only what she had promised. 

But there are times when the Godhood within us is more powerful than 
our wills and more compelling than our promises to parents, teachers, kings 
and potentates. Poor Rose was to learn this now. For, in spite of everything, 
her pencil began to move across the slate with a greater speed than it had ever 
moved before, and than arithmetic, spelling, history, grammar, or composition 



10 Rosa Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 

had ever been able to bring about. It seemed like magic. Rose forgot prom- 
ises, lessons, the house in which she lived, the Indiana of her birth. She was 
transplanted to England, and as the pictures of the night before came back 
to her excited brain she wrote in her childish and unformed, yet legible hand: 

BESSIE AND THE CURFEW 

England's sun was setting, behind the hills so far away, 

Filled the land with mystic beauty, at the close of that sad day. 

Mrs. Thorpe's own account of the way Bessie intruded upon her mathe- 
matical endeavors was thus related in the Chicago Inter-Ocean of June 5, 1887. 

The figures became a confused unintelligible jumble of meaningless characters; 
but clearly and distinctly before my mental vision arose these words: "Curfew must 
not ring tonight." Again and again I resolutely banished them, but they returned 
persistently, until in sheer desperation I swept the exasperating figures from my slate 
and wrote "England's sun was slowly setting." Rapidly flew my pencil, with sharp, 
regular clicks, down the surface of my slate, but faster the thoughts came, crowding 
into my throbbing brain, while all my being seemed on fire with the triumph of 
impulse over duty. Which was duty? The unlearned lesson or the completed poem? 
I was conscience-smitten when my mother looked in at the door to inform me that 
a young friend had called. "Oh mother," I cried, "please excuse me for a few 
moments. I must finish this," and she, thinking I desired to complete my lesson (for 
I still held the arithmetic in my hand), excused me to my friend for a few minutes. 

Again she returned to her poem and when it was finished, her mind 
slowly came back to her Michigan home. Looking around, she saw she was 
by her own fireside, and the slate in her hands was supposed to bear the 
evidence of her finished lessons. 

These, alas, were untouched. Again she recalled the promise she had 
made to her mother. Alas! She had broken her word; the lessons were not 
done, and it was nearly bedtime. Repentant and appalled at her naughtiness 
Rose rushed, with tears, to her mother: "Oh! mother dear, I can hardly 
believe it, but I could not help it. I didn't intend to deceive you. I did 
just what I promised you I would not do. I sat down with the full inten- 
tion of writing nothing but my lessons, and before I knew it, these verses 
came and I had to write them. Just let me read them to you, then I will 
wash them off my slate, forget them and do my lessons." 

Seeing her child so full of repentance, the wise mother uttered no rebuke, 
but listened as Rose read what she had written. When she had read it all the 
young author, in her abasement at having forgotten her promise, was about to 
erase the lines, but her mother stayed her hand. "Wait awhile, child, let them 
stay on your slate until morning. Never mind your lessons. I think I would 
like you to write those verses on paper tomorrow so that we may keep them." 

Happy that her mother did not chide her Rose went to bed. In the 
morning the poem was transcribed and thus saved for the pleasure and delight 
of the world. 

There is a little question here as to whether this first transcription on 
paper was made in a small blank book which, either at this time or later, her 
mother bought for her, or on a strip of the long white paper ribbon is rolled 
on. Rose's story of this book and the white ribbon paper is as follows: 

When I was about sixteen years of age I persuaded my mother to invest fifty 
cents in a blank book for the preservation of my poetic fancies. It was a great 
favor to ask. I fully realized the magnitude of my request, also that fifty cents 
was a vast amount of money in a family of seven, where a tailor's needle must supply ' 
the needs of all. It may be that she recalled the record of my childhood days, when, 



Curfew Must Not Ring To-mght 11 

as sometimes happened at rare intervals, a cent apiece would be distributed among 
the children to be expended as our inclination dictated. Oh, wondrous event of those 
early times, when, with clean, stiff-starched sunbonnets, bright, sunshiny faces fairly 
bubbling over with joyous anticipations, with each respective cent treasured carefully 
in a closed, brown palm, we tiled demurely into the village store, and with conse- 
quential importance purchased — for the rest — a cent's worth of candy, a cent's worth 
of chewing-gum, a cent's worth of peanuts. But never such trivial things for me. 
Invariably my cent purchased a sheet of foolscap writing paper. I do not remember 
that my precious cent was ever squandered in any other way, even in those earlier 
years, before I had learned to write and could only print my little rhymes and stories 
in conspicuous and painstaking capitals. The cents did not find their way into my 
possession often enough to supply the ever-increasing demand for paper, consequently 
I was obliged to write in the white sand and in the pure, new-fallen snow. I haunted 
the milliners' stores for the paper in which ribbon had been rolled. My writings 
were finely illustrated and elaborately colored with the petals of flowers and the 
green of leaves. I undertook at one time to publish an illustrated magazine, issued 
weekly, which was a gratuitous contribution to some of my school friends who appre- 
ciated my talent as a story-teller. The paper supply "falling short" after the blank 
leaves from our school books had all been utilized, the enterprise, so enthusiastically 
begun, was sorrowfully abandoned, but the continued stories were completed orally. 

I am inclined to believe that the verses were first transcribed on the 
milliners' ribbon paper, and later into the book. This precious little book i^ 
before me as I write. It is only a common blank book, bound in leather with 
paper board sides, the paper of a pale blue tint, and in it is "Curfew," sand- 
wiched between many other of the poetic effusions of Rose's girl days. The 
two pages that contain "Curfew" however, are of chief interest. The poem 
is dated April 5, 1867, and one can see the child in the spelling. We have 
"mistic," "tryed," "sollam," "murmer," "gased," "whare," "too and frow," 
"lader," "awfle," "beneth," "tounge," "stoped," "swang," "too and froe," 
"funearel," "beeting," "siezed" for ceased, "sweiping," "steped," "siers," 
"cryed," "twords," "geathered," "seigned." 

Here, too, is a stanza, the last one, which was never published as written. 
Yet it is interesting to see this first impulse of the young poet, and now, with 
her permission, I publish it. And, as the original hand writing of the poem's 
author will surely prove interesting to many, it is reproduced in exact facsimile, 
with the extra and unused stanza attached. 

When I asked Mrs. Thorpe to allow me to republish this facsimile of 
her famous poem she hesitated awhile. There were several reasons why, one 
of which was the poor spelling. I have noticed this spelling purposely, for 
there are critics today even, who would condemn a poem submitted to them 
were the spelling no better than this. "They strain at a gnat and swallow 
a camel." Of course, it is well that one, young or old, should know how to 
spell properly, but let us never forget that spelling is a mere mechanical thing, 
and of secondary or tertiary importance, while the ability to write, to think, to 
compose is the thing, the matter of primary importance. 

There is now an interesting hiatus in the story. "Curfew" was written 
and transcribed in the book. Doubtless Rose and her mother once in awhile 
read it over, and it is easy to conceive that now and again its blushing young 
author was called upon to read or recite it to adoring, envying or jealous 
neighbors when they came to call. But no one dreamed of the fame the poem 
was to bring. Greater and more famous writers have been equally unaware. 
Rudyard Kipling threw his "Recessional" into the waste-basket, from whence 
it was rescued by his more discerning wife, and Elbert Hubbard never dreamed 
that his "Message to Garcia" was to carry his name to the ends of the 
earth. Joaquin Miller little conceived of the worth of his poem, "Columbus." 



QSlIci tiU /IcvW /ia^M /KstMM/ tlic •/■e^rfJua.el , 0/ co Wart, cvnof ' mn«*e/uw /iu/r \ 
/t>£ IviM*. siJtiftA 4o -&&UJ o^vioU hrfM-i^y , AJui/ sn~t,qZ. A^^^vvu j£fo *£Jv*y tLoasl, 

&J4li*j,<j,-0al/ Ak> /CaJv <jt40 till srnstvir17Uv~, Xjzvrl-fw' '>H«-tA<7srtaf'ytJsyia Zvm-- 

(Sjt^Jfol/, Jco: cv ~thj , r>7 tut oti-tsrv -tl^trMfUf, .4-07 Slvriy ~Lv 'tf-u -^^(rn. fCcO, 
'.'rvp£ dk waivi Ao f&U C"*J aCio-yncj , '"//toU 4o atcvtvA: <? cZxsyK **■ Circa, 
•~\jC OV -wirCst' AAV~thev4- fis>s</i^V, o'm'ymrJU^o i\r<A,\y "Mq M Zv ohe,' , 

V7n . n ,-1$-*$ +, A 4t> -WW /trf< Awn/Li 'J", CiMc/ yfoYplvU Cyy<^J ifficvrtjitJL fty-idj-j. 

(j/l£>C<jd', J4Y /us.o/>st tr-v< siw/uo £h>^ C^aaSjaa), ///trm Z&a/~ ' adm-yny J-fwdow<d n • 

/fiV^ ii^n-mo ^^u4/ -fiA ^e«Wj*f X^t w % /W<i»*^ -naivYC 
t/ /yitMfi? clone) syivu ch*ti //\r(r,, Aiiysc?(£o <?tv str ^wfY a/rtCr MoJyi" 
Orm 3'fn c/d J wm /lift /m<c4 *f. 'SAA^d* ru^U/^J A#viy<J JtryUfJ,/f: 



19 (fw(/ ' a.'YtoL A*%sicil Osr(>uO MxeJ* //aM/vy-C/ l swntAi a/ntl -w/uAi^r- aj^O 7& /fain; 
y. ■iv^Z^ii' ■wt ~/hOa/£> cxitfe C&tl&y-, &^4<u£ 1-ncuM <*/ - iMjfLm IhrrlO, 

At $£< ,1*Y1.C4^ig Of-lk. (XAa/jCtJ, J$<yAsif {Wc-Al^VVc/ falser diS, " 
Gvriz/ /Ctu vit-o/tff C4oriw/a/>4'cw?d' /co>Z£v: *^ri£vOt tkt /au &> <?h/ ' Atu^e£q whtfjT 
<lJn£; &ru) ■WwrrrU'/' jfasisrn>£j .dAyfczr*^ CiL/i/iytJ r^nsn^/rutr ' Avr>g sZcrrh-f&ff 

Js/ifAt yvi/[£ jUjtA' J<' /CLati/h asnci- awy . dftlcsnp ^^-tthi^i Ttu sud cJz>ii,tvA cCirW^ 

JOj^i' fli/_ rict'i'TiayicsrnvTy Mt/ivu*, J>aZ&s ni d X/wt/svn etas*) y yc*~C ', 
JctAieJiet ' JykH) mot tyz/Z%i4( MjL' ctcvylt.'-KAf, 4M'tn^i%£. cji-m arte/ ' ^yv~kJ CtyXffuO. 

0/nt> qaAZcl ' ivyh Mi. *£(rtrfr>y Ainvt r , 'r,i f:i~-6<Ckc £w 4 A4M6 Zvb arfld; jpMrtS 
Ci' it.Vfd M\Oi*Ju Zhi AWyviy /i^c-u-i/j cUvrKf ■wMtcmlo'nej ^ay tf £ty-h/^[ 
- ' 'A '.< ra ■■'-'-":, o-wv-tfi' Sivflsvoiwolj civi/-MJ jAa-f/ /naf /wvic* Avw%J[/if 



Gjbz) fai /KcuAtc/Xhi ZH4iinv4/l' ' £(xdxA' 7 ow 'hew diAic, tfuLo^f.cJl'UiMri-lUii', 
Qhi/1 Mio aM/Jj. aZmfrn /ft^u'^Ck A)V^ m/u Tm. Si aM. tiny down Zi nifi, 

#W fhi Aiji/t/r Jid,i aJufuc/ *■ ^i«w, $%h£d*Jhr\ faeej£'9 i.%&J JjA/'fanv', 

Q4i 2-hsu A^/lcvnz owe! ' cJLdc+Jol it AjwiJL , OWifaJ -^AniAM truftsislYto. Mrrtti/rf; 

'Oivi dJaJ .ku-urtv, fi*v out, 7*+ < <&fc~ &&y>v4 arfc/wy j4jlck> &&>j, 
JJbtnrcJ Xwls/r mtu^-e^J ewet ' (ovtrZK- M*AfjAicM,(lll£fii ft/If A/wivv? ZPj f- fntc- 
Qmtet~t&L cOa/ ei fy Of /i^>i^yyjQ , Jiaof ' nwf/rtM/rJjinrjjjcvr-JttJ./Ul!/, 

$%lI/7Z&jl /%ouotulA cA^VA^it pA/ndj, fw ct/yto/ -frj-K) 40 'h/fctcT] 

<nW £o-K)r»x4 /j^-^r £a&rtf* aw/sw' ^w «/ /W^k?» £s**a4U~. 



o't w<M .'■W /ffe X-w Ajut.'y/d A'h J JA.',Jvfrt& , Oi/ndZkL fyicucOM <44w/<i trWMt 



hfrrt 



A*vl*!, 



,JjtM» /to t>MciAbvt '^rhy. -CLi. Ou/U^W, cUc( mrf- AvyiQ Ma/i' <r*JV otv-yTi f*u»/ty 
(2 <-. fit), dvvfa.n-!'- £i£&i C/asyruJ Oy-ryn Vs^-m, vj^iSAt Ja**0 W-VV a/rtdt ' rurf' Irvrr*;, 
Vn' 'kii ^u^ wis v™J -?U4 ' AUry, yfAmv&f shJA- 6-ttsnM a/o ■W-luAtl/ «*</ Jtvn , 

UAvieAthi *Tnivy-d,S tfc*- '■ £*™.A- /.AAA :-K, W^. t-"i/^ 1*J AJr YU ' CW 4 f ^ITVLf -V<j/tr*r(- i 

.JWKii yy\c**ctvn Jwvo yfU-vri O'lAf, m-^ wK wirtw* cAm£. &s*ot ' Ayti, 






14 Rosa Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 

until Tennyson declared it was the greatest poem, expressive of a nation's 
destiny, ever penned. 

Rose's poem remained in the little blank book until fate forced its publi- 
cation in the year 1870, in the Detroit Commercial Advertiser, and it hap- 
pened in this wise. A year or more before the poem was written Rose had 
had the great delight of sending one of her early efforts to this paper, having 
it accepted, and seeing it in print. The editor wrote, saying he was unable to 
pay her for more of her verses, but, if she would continue to send them, he 
would gladly send her the paper — subscription price, $1.50 per year. Rose 
was happy enough to fly. A newspaper worth $1.50 a year for her verses! 
How proud she was! For, let it not be forgotten, she was but a child. The 
accompanying picture, made from a daguerrotype, shows her appearance at 
this time. Mobile mouth, the eyes of a dreamer, lofty and broad forehead, 
yet who would have guessed that this unformed maiden had dashed off, while 
she should have been "doing her lessons," a ballad that should ring throughout 
the English-speaking world more, perhaps, than any other ever written, should 
be translated into many tongues, and thrill more hearts, cause more tears of 
sympathy to be shed, and be used to illustrate more sermons than history could 
ever record ? 

The idea seems never to have entered her mind to send the poem to a 
publisher. It was not the kind of verse the Commercial had asked for. These, 
she wrote as a pleasing task. But she was taken ill with typhoid fever. Her 
poem for that week was already written, so it was sent and appeared in due 
time. The following week, however, she was too ill to write one, so she copied 
out "Curfew," and sent it with an apology, explaining that her illness pre- 
vented her from writing the expected poem, but she sent this instead. 

It is doubtful whether the editor grasped the significance of his act when 
he published it. Anyhow he "accepted the apology" and the poem, and it 
occupied Rose's usual corner. But the world soon knew what Rose and the 
editor had done. Paper after paper copied the ballad, until all the Eastern 
States, all Canada, had read it, and boys and girls were reciting it, preachers, 
teachers, elocutionists, and platform orators were quoting it in part or entire, 
with such dramatic fire and gesture as they deemed most appropriate. 

It was in this first publication that Rose was instinctively led to leave off 
the extra stanza reproduced above. The poem was longer than those she 
generally sent to the Commercial, so, to keep these lines a little nearer the 
required shortness, she cut off the extra stanza and let the poem end with 
Cromwell's declaration: 

Go, your lover lives; Curfew shall not ring tonight. 

Even yet, however, the young poet did not know what Fate had done for 
her. Quietly the poem was winning its own way, and in 1874, Rossiter John- 
son, then living in Rochester, New York, decided to publish a volume entitled 
Waifs and Their Authors, to consist of poems of popularity and power, that, 
however, had only appeared hitherto as fugitive verse in the columns of current 
and, some of them, little-known, newspapers. 

By this time Rose had married and had become Mrs. E. C. Thorpe, and 
a baby girl had come to her. Yet she was the same child-hearted creature, 
still a dreamer, still unfamiliar with the doing of business, and still totally 
unaware of the commercial value of her work. So, when Mr. Johnson, struck 
by "Curfew's" power and beauty, wrote and asked for particulars as to the 
writing of the poem, and expressed a wish to publish it, Mrs. Thorpe gave 



Curfew Must Not Ring To-mght 15 

him the required information and permission. But in telling her story she 
raised a grave doubt in the mind of the man who afterwards was to become 
noted as a critic and editor. She, when a sixteen-year-old school girl write 
that famous ballad? It seemed impossible, and he refused to believe it until 
she sent to him the new stanza which she had decided should take the place of 
the one which she had rejected. This reads as follows: 

Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner forth to die, 

All his bright young life before him, 'neath the darkening English sky; 

Bessie came with flying footsteps, ayes aglow with lovelight sweet, 

Kneeling on the turf beside him, laid his pardon at his feet. 

In his brave, strong arms he elapsed her, kissed the face upturned and white, 

Whispered, "Darling, you have saved me, Curfew will not ring tonight!" 

Nor was this the only experience of the kind. At a later date the bold 
claim was made of English authorship for the poem, several persons asserting 
they had seen it in an old English reader before Mrs. Thorpe claimed to have 
written it. But, though repeatedly challenged to produce the book, or find its 
professed author, neither one nor the other has ever appeared. Needless to 
say they never will. 

This publication, by Mr. Johnson, was but one of many. Every book 
of Popular Recitations contained it, and it grew in public favor, the more it 
was heard and read, the mere echoes of which scarcely reached the ears of its 
author, who was having her own struggles and difficulties to overcome, and 
hard problems to solve, to which I shall refer later. 

Now I come to one of the less pleasing features of this interesting story. 
It deals with man's duplicity, cupidity, selfishness and greed. The law pro- 
vides for the protection of literary property the same as any other, but what 
could a young country girl, even though a married woman, know of such 
things. Her father and husband were equally ignorant. What should a 
country tailor or a carriage builder know of how to copyright a poem? None 
of them knew, and no one told them. Not even the Boston publishers, who, 
in 1881 realizing the popularity of the poem, wrote and asked if they might 
publish it. They wanted permission, they said, because they intended to have 
certain noted artists illustrate it, at considerable expense, and without such 
permission they did not care to proceed. The unsophisticated country woman, 
never dreaming of the property value of her poem, felt proud and honored by 
this distinguishing mark of the consideration and condescension of the great 
Boston publishers, and in writing a ready permission suggested that they use 
the additional and last verse which she herewith enclosed. Not a word was 
said by either party about copyright, for, as I have already fully explained, 
Rose and her family were absolutely ignorant of such matters. 

On receipt of this reply, the gentlemanly and honorable publishers pro- 
ceeded to get out the poem, with its illustrations, but before issuing it coolly 
copyrighted, not alone their illustration (which they certainly had a right to 
copyright), but the whole poem, to which they had no more right than they 
had to the crown jewels of England. Knowing its probable value in this 
handsomely illustrated form, these men deliberately appropriated it. They 
knew it was likely to bring them thousands of dollars, possibly hundreds ot 
thousands. 

One would have thought that even cold-blooded business men would 
have had their consciences touched when they saw the swelling of their coffers 
by this act of theirs, and that they would have offered, of their own initiative, 
some small recompense to the author. But no! Instead, she assures me that 



16 Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 

she was made to pay — wholesale rates, of course — for every copy she received 
from them, even though she bought them by the hundred. 

Nor is this all ! Not content with this act, these "keen business men" 
went further. An English firm, Caruthers Brothers, announced through their 
American agent that they were about to put on the English and American 
markets a very handsomely illustrated edition of the poem, superior in every 
way to anything yet produced. 

Immediately Lee & Shepard, the Boston publishers, through their lawyer, 
wrote to the English firm, asserting they had purchased the copyright from the 
author and threatening legal proceedings if the book was issued. Caruthers 
Brothers, by return mail, sent this letter to Mrs. Thorpe, asking if this was so. 
Here was the first intimation the innocent woman had ever received that the 
word "copyright" in the books meant that the Boston publishers had done 
more than she expected them to do, viz., copyright their own property, — the 
illustrations. Had she even now consulted a lawyer some redress might have 
been obtained, but she was too ignorant of law to understand this. At the 
same time, too, the situation was made harder by her receiving another letter 
from Lee & Shepard's lawyer, stating that as they had purchased the copyright 
from her. they positively refused to allow Caruthers Bros, to publish the poem, 
and would appeal to 'the law to protect their rights. The wolf appealing to 
the law to protect it in its right to the fleece of the lamb it had shorn. For it 
must be remembered they were yearly shipping numbers of copies of the 
poem for sale in England, and did not want an edition to be issued on the 
other side of the Atlantic, as that would materially reduce their own profits, 
and yet not one cent of these gains was ever turned over to Mrs. Thorpe. 

Naturally the English firm dropped the matter, and any royalties Mrs. 
Thorpe might have received from them were lost. In a lawyer's hands it is 
possible something might have been done, but there were too many other 
pressing demands being made upon Mrs. Thorpe's time, health, and scant purse 
to allow this thought any lodgement in her mind. 

How different from the treatment that should have been accorded her. 
The Boston publishers, seeing her innocent childlikeness, should have protected 
her in her rights; have given her the information needed for her protection, 
and, as honorable gentlemen, shared the proceeds with her. 

This is what one English publisher did. Some friends, who had been 
to England, brought her an exquisitely gotten-up copy of her poem, bearing 
the imprint of John Walker, of London, who, doubtless, had gained his right 
to publish from Lee & Shepard Mrs. Thorpe was so delighted with it that 
she sent a $5 bill to Mr. Walker, saying she had no idea of the price, but 
would he kindly send her as many copies as this amount would buy. By return 
mail came a letter, returning her money and saying that he was sending her, 
with his compliments, two hundred copies, and that if she desired more she 
was to write at once and let him know. These were copies ranging in price 
from $1.25 to $4 each. 

Many honors have come to the poet as the result of her easily-gained 
fame, none, however, pleasing her more than the honorary degree of Master 
of Arts, conferred upon her by one of the fine old educational institutions of 
Michigan, her home state for so many years. The degree was accompanied 
by the following letter : 



Curfew Must Not Ring To-NlGHl 17 

"Hillsdale College, 
"Hillsdale, Mich., June 22, 188.?. 
"Mrs. Rose Hartwick Thorpe, 

"Grand Rapids, Mich. 

"Dear Madam : 

"Allow me to announce to you that upon the recommendation of the fac- 
ulty, the trustees of this college voted unanimously to confer upon you the 
honorary degree of Master of Arts. Hoping that the author of "Curfew- 
Must Not Ring Tonight" — a poem which will never allow the name of its 
author to die — will accept this kindly token of recognition, I am, 

"Sincerely yours, 

"D. W. C. Durgin, President." 

Like all other popular writers, Mrs. Thorpe has had the experience ot 
learning many things from the newspapers about herself that were not so. 
For instance, she says: 

A very interesting and flowery article on my school life at Hillsdale College, 
and success as a writer at the time, was once published in a leading Chicago paper, 
with so vivid and realistic a description of my beautiful home and home-life of 
luxury and indulgence, that the reading of the article brought tears of regret into 
my eyes; regret that the enchanting, delightful life depicted as mine, was mine only 
in imagination. I was never a student at Hillsdale College. 

Year by year added to the fame and popularity of the poem, and about 
two years before the great World's Fair in Chicago, say in 1891, a man 
appeared at Litchfield who seemed to have plenty of leisure and money, and 
nothing much to do. He chatted with everybody he met, but didn't seem to 
be much interested in anything until the names of the Hartwicks, or Thorpes, 
or Rose, was mentioned. Then he was wide-awake, alert and intent. He 
"said nothing to nobody" about what he was there for, but on several occasions 
sought out Rose's teacher and got her to tell him all she could recall of her 
pupil's life. Soon afterwards he disappeared, and a week or two later there 
appeared in the New York Sun several columns of stories of the life of the 
girlish author of "Curfew." Thus her fame spread. 

This also led to another honor being conferred upon her which Mrs. 
Thorpe highly prized. The women of Litchfield were much elated and 
delighted at the notice their city had received through the Sun articles. It was 
also good for business, as many people came to see the place where the memor- 
able poem was born. So they decided to be represented at the World's Fair, 
and they chose for that purpose to make a banner representing "Curfew" and 
its author. When Miss Turrell, the secretary of the Litchfield committee, 
informed Mre. Thorpe of this fact, she received a letter from which I extract 
the following: 

I cannot tell you how this graceful recognition from my dear old home touches 
me. Of the many honors conferred upon me during the past twelve years, there is 
nothing I appreciate more than this, coming as it does from the friends and acquaint- 
ances of my girlhood and early womanhood. 

The banner decided upon was quite an expensive affair, made of silk and 
gold bullion, etc. It was to cost $300. To raise this money the women of 
the town pinched and saved, sold now a dozen eggs, now a pound of butter, yet 
when the time for placing the banner arrived they were still $30 short of the 
$300 needed. A friend advanced the money, the banner was made, and before 
the fair was over the $30 was raised and paid back. 

At the close of the fair this banner was sent to San Diego, and the 
Woman's Club was deputed to present it to Mrs. Thorpe. This interesting 



18 Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 

ceremony took place in her home in the presence of a large number of friends. 
The president of the club, Mrs. Riddell, made the presentation speech, as 
follows: 

Never in all the history of the world has more honor been given to woman than in 
this Columbian year, 1893. In every part of the great Exposition woman was duly 
recognized. From the ingenious little woman artist who skillfully molded butter into 
artistic form up through every phase of highest art woman has had her representa- 
tion and received her meed of praise. From the highest platform a "reform" calling 
for the noblest efforts of heart and brain down to the mere accident of birth, she 
has had her representation and received her meed of praise. In short, women are 
making history, and the future generations will scarcely be able to say that the women 
of this year were honored for any one characteristic, but rather that the world was 
broad enough to honor all women and each for the best effort she ever made, no matter 
in what direction. In the closing of this historical year, in the hallowed Christmas 
month when mothers are telling the precious story of the Christ child, it is well for 
women to honor their own sex. 

Some years ago, a slender dark-eyed girl in Litchfield, Mich., wrote upon her 
slate the story of an English girl saving her lover's life. The story, told in rhyme, 
has lived, and many a loyal impulse has been stirred to life by the pathos of its lines. 

When the good people of Litchfield looked about them for something to repre- 
sent them at the great world's fair nothing seemed to them so great as the poem of 
that little girl. They made them a banner, with loving hands, and draped in their 
Michigan Building at the world's fair it told its story of loyalty, earnestness and truth. 
They forward that banner to us, for the girl is to a woman grown and lives with us. 
O, poet soul ! 

Small wonder is it that you should drift to this sunny Southland, and on one 
of its sunniest slopes build you a home. Warm as the sun shining on your lemon and 
vine is the good cheer you dispense to neighbor and friend. Gentle as the tempered 
wind from the bay is the influence of the literature that flows from your pen. The 
Women's Club of San Diego, in presenting to Rose Hartwick Thorpe the banner from 
the women of Michigan, wish to add this tribute to her fame: No word she has ever 
spoken, no line she has ever written, has influenced a soul for ill. 

The question is often asked as to whether there is any foundation in 
history for the poem. Its great circulation in England ultimately brought it 
to the attention of Queen Victoria, with whom it became a favorite. This 
fact, in itself, was enough to lead important and learned historians to desire 
to investigate and find out whether there was any foundation for the story. I 
do not recall the name of the eminent historian whose researches were'success- 
ful. He found that the main events actually occurred at Chertsey, some 
twenty miles from London ; the church still standing with its tower and bell as 
it had been for hundreds of years. The son of the Lord of the Manor was 
arrested as a spy, was actually condemned to death, and was saved by the 
action of his brave affianced who, by hanging on the clapper of the bell, pre- 
vented Curfew from tolling out its usual evening knell. 

What matter that in the poem the youthful author followed errors of the 
writer of the story and made the steps of the ladder slimy when most probably 
the tower had its own stone steps and they were dry and musty rather than 
wet and slimy? What though Bessie did not "swing far out" over the city so 
that it "seemed a tiny speck below"? The girlish writer did instinctively what 
many a great and famous author has done with conscious intent, viz., violated 
the facts in order to produce the mental effect. 

What though the critics say the sexton, even though deaf, would certainly 
have known that no sound was coming from the bell ? What though we openly 
confess, "Of course he would, had he been thinking anything about it, and on 
the alert, listening, to see ivhether anything teas the matter!" But he was 
so accustomed to the ringing of the bell that it had become a habit to which he 
paid absolutely no attention. 



Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 19 

Then, too, the critics say it is absurd to suppose that the military authori- 
ties would have meant anything other than that Basil should die at the hour 
of Curfew, and that, therefore, the ringing of the bell could have had nothing 
whatever to do with the carrying out of the order of execution. Such criticism 
reflects the psychology of the critic, in that he applies to the old Puritan mili- 
tary authorities the workings of his own mind. To him "Curfew" would 
mean the hour of Curfew, whereas to them it meant actually what it said, 
"When Curfew rings Underwood dies!" They would have waited until 
doomsday, ere they would have carried out their order, unless the bell had 
actually rung. Furthermore, here again poetic license might be the plea 
offered in justification, and what Milton, Shakespeare, Dante, Goethe, Brown- 
ing, and a score of other poets had done without apology, may well be allowed 
to a tyro in the art. 

It is interesting to note that until about seven years ago the tower and bell 
of Chertsey Abbey remained as they had been for centuries. The bell is dated 
"East Circum, A. D. 1310," so for seven hundred years it has given forth of 
its warning sounds. Seven years ago, however, it was found that the oaken 
timbers which supported the bell were giving way, and it was decided to 
replace them. An enterprising manufacturer of the neighborhood purchased 
the decaying timbers, had a great number of porcelain bells made, imitative 
of the original bell and bearing the inscription "The Chertsey Abbey or 
Curfew Bell," and the date line above given, had the oak made into clappers, 
and then sold them as souvenirs. Thousands of them have been sold, possibly 
hundreds of thousands, for the poem is as popular as household words, and — 
here is the irony of fate — this maker and vendor of a mere souvenir, for which 
there never would have been the slightest demand had the poem not been 
written, has made more money out of its sale than Mrs. Thorpe has done from 
all the writing of her active and busy lifetime, including all returns from the 
Curfew poem itself, for these, as I have explained elsewhere, have been purely 
nominal. 

From the parodies written upon the poem one might quote enough to fill 
a book. But the one that amused Mrs. Thorpe more than any other came as 
the result of a local quarrel over crowing roosters. More cities than one have 
had fights over the question of allowing people to keep crowing roosters in 
residence sections, but it is not every city that had so clever a parodist as this 
one. He wrote verse after verse recounting the irritations caused by the 
crowing roosters, winding up each stanza with the emphatic line: 

"Rooster must not crow tonight!" 

It was so witty and forceful that, it is well to add, it won the day for the 
advocates of quietness. 

Then it was used in other "skits." For instance, the following appeared 
in the New York Press and was copied all over the country: 

HER HAPPY RUSE 
She eyed the clock, but like a rock 

He stayed and did not take his hat. 
Till half past ten he sat, and then 
Still sat and sat and sat and sat. 

At last she stepped upon a chair, 

And said: "Attend, while I recite 
To you, while you are sitting there, 

'The Curfew Must Not Ring Tonight.'" 



20 Rosa Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 

He shrank as if before a blow ; 

"Excuse me, please," he tremblingly said; 
"It's getting late — I've got to go — " 

And then he fled. 

As before related, Rose Hartwick was married September 11, 1871, to 
Edmund Carson Thorpe, at Litchfield, Mich., where they spent the first years 
of their wedded life. Three children were born to them, two, a girl and a 
boy, dying in infancy, and another daughter, Lulo, who grew up into healthy, 
happy womanhood. She is now Mrs. E. Y. Barnes, and lives in San Diego, 
the mother of three children who are the darlings of their grandmother's 
heart. 

Those Litchfield years were years of great struggles, hardships, and priva- 
tions to the young couple. Mr. Thorpe was a carriage-maker, and it was just 
at the time when firms like the Studebakers, and the makers of the Columbus 
buggies, were taking all the business in this line by their new methods of 
cooperative workmanship. This fact will help make clear what follows later 
in my narrative. 

The question is often asked whether Mrs. Thorpe has written anything 
more than "Curfew." This question, in itself, demonstrates how fickle and 
transient a thing is fame. Because of its popular and universal appeal "Cur- 
few" made friends all over the world. It happened to strike the responsive 
chords of the human heart. Had it not been for this one poem all the rest of 
her work would have passed as that of most writers do, unnoticed and 
unknown. Had she possessed the commercial instinct this one poem would 
have made her a rich woman. She would have copyrighted it ; secured large 
royalties from its sale in this country and England, and in every country else- 
where into whose language it was translated. Then, when moving picture 
companies wished to use it she would have demanded — and secured — royalties 
there, and finally, she would have commercialized her fame as a writer, and 
secured other commissions for poems at a high price. Yet not one of these 
things did she do. Here is her own story as to how she "broke into" the 
general literary field. She begins it with a "confession" and an "apology," 
which show how she was influenced by the thought of the people around her: 

The resolve to conquer my troublesome inheritance was not confined to my 
girlhood days; after I became a wife and mother the old battle was fought over many 
times, while the cravings of intellectual hunger remained unsatisfied or feasted at 
rare intervals, that I might vie with my neighbors as an exemplary housekeeper. I 
made few calls, consequently the time that others spent in social intercourse was my 
opportunity to become acquainted with both authors and their works. It was not 
accounted an unpardonable sin for a woman to read in that little country town; but 
writing savored of the "blue-stocking." Not altogether inexcusable in a girl, but the 
wife and mother who took her pen, except in letter correspondence, received severe 
condemnation from her acquaintances. Sometimes when I had accomplished an 
unusual amount of housework during the day, when the little ones were "tucked in 
bed" at night, I felt that I had earned an hour's companionship with my pen, but think 
how the weary body must have influenced the brain, and is it a wonder that I did so 
little really acceptable work during those long years? Once during that time of 
unsatisfactory struggle of duty against inclination, a little woman having ascertained 
where to find me, came to me from the great world beyond ; the world that admired 
my poem extravagantly, it seemed to me. She was the first literary person I had ever 
met. She brought into my quiet life busy whiffs of my own enchanted dreams. She 
held the door of "my paradise" ajar, and revealed to me possibilities of the future; 
how I might assist my dear husband more effectually than by doing a servant's 
drudgery. The week after she left me I sent a poem to the Youth's Companion, and 
received my first check from the publishers. With all of her persuasions to the con- 
trary, I considered it presumptuous for me to expect remuneration for my rhymes, 



Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 21 

though "Curfew" had been popular for more than ten years and in two continents. 
I had written gratuitously for years, but not until then had I received any reward 
for my labors. 

My first successful venture encouraged me to try again, and in a short time 
I had received checks from St. Nicholas, Wide Aia-ake, the Detroit Free Press, and 
several other publications that found my poems available. They seemed like little 
fortunes to us, those "fives" and "tens" dropped into our tired, hard-working lives. 

The full story of the sending out of that first poem has never yet been 
told. Here it is. Their residence was above the carriage factory. Her 
daughter was then about six years old and Mrs. Thorpe had her to care for, 
and a husband who was far from well, overworked and poor, and she herself 
was a wreck physically. Then came a catastrophe. Though her husband was 
working every day until late into the night, a stroke of ill fortune, coming atop 
of the business depression referred to, made them lose even the little they had. 
The agony of mind rendered Mrs. Thorpe so sick that she became an invalid 
and for long, weary months was confined to her bed. During most of this 
time their food was prepared and the house cared for as well as it could be by 
the loving faithfulness and brave cheerfulness of the six-year-old daughter. 
For, although her husband was far from well, he kept resolutely at work, doing 
the best he could to preserve a little business from the wreck that seemed 
inevitable. 

As the mother lay there, helpless, upon her couch, the thought came: "I 
have given the world a poem it has enjoyed and delighted in. Never a cent 
has come to me from it. Now I am in need. Never has my mind been clearer 
than it is today. I'll send a poem to an editor, then put it up to God as to 
whether we are to be forgotten, and wait for the answer." 

Mrs. Thorpe's best recollection is that this "test poem" was sent to The 
Interior, a religious weekly, published in Chicago. Then she sent another to 
St. Nicholas, and still another to The Youth's Companion, and she fully 
decided in her own mind that any return from any one of these three poems 
she would regard as God's voice of cheer, comfort and encouragement. The 
days and weeks passed. One day, as she lay upon her couch, in pain of both 
body and mind, wondering why no reply came from the editors, yet still hoping 
that God had not forsaken them, she heard the downstairs door slam, and 
someone coming tearing up the stairs at great speed. It was her husband. He 
dropped down beside her and said: "I have something that will make you 
happy," at the same time handing her an opened envelope from the Chicago 
editor, containing a check for $2.00. 

"Thank God!" Mrs. Thorpe exclaimed. "He has spoken. We can get 
someone to help us for two weeks with this two dollars. 

The same day came another check for $5.00, from New York, and another 
from Boston for $10.00. Thus her prayers were answered, and courage given 
to work ahead in the literary field. More poems were sent out, and at one 
time there was sixty dollars in the treasury that came all at once, but never, 
not even with her largest check, was there the satisfaction and delight that she 
felt with that first check for two dollars. 

But while she was doing a little with her literary work, things were 
growing daily worse with her husband's business, and in 1881 they decided to 
give it up and turn the whole thing over to their creditors. 

Just at this time a lady writer and newspaper reporter from Chicago 
called upon Mrs. Thorpe for a story, and learning her need, urged her to go 
to that city, where she would introduce her to Fleming H. Revell, a rising 
bookseller and publisher. 



22 Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 

She went, and when the two were leaving the office Mr. Revell asked her 
to leave some of the stories and poems she had brought and call upon him the 
following day. Then, having maneuvered to get the reporter out of hearing, 
he whispered to Mrs. Thorpe: "Come alone!" 

The following day when she entered the store (alone, of course), the 
chief clerk met her, and said: "We sat in the office until ever so late last night 
reading your stories and crying over them like a lot of children!" 

This sounded pleasing to Mrs. Thorpe's ears, and prepared her for the 
kind words Mr. Revell poured forth upon her work. He engaged her then 
and there as editor and writer on work of a rather unique character. Mr. 
Revell was a young man then, but had already begun to show the genius that 
has since enabled him to build up so large a business as he now controls. It 
was in the days before photo-engraving had come into use, and to have illustra- 
tions drawn and then made into cuts to use for magazines and papers was an 
expensive process, impossible to any publisher unless he had a large and paying 
circulation. In England, however, several popular monthlies were able to 
afford these luxuries. Mr. Revell saw in these an opportunity for himself. 
He succeeded in persuading the English publishers to sell him electrotypes of 
their illustrations and send them over to him each month. Many of the 
stories, however, were altogether unsuited to the American public. He decided, 
therefore, to seek an author and editor who had imagination enough to take 
these illustrations and write poems and stories to fit them, and for this work 
his choice fell upon Mrs. Thorpe. The proposition was made to her and she 
accepted it. 

Not a high literary ideal, perhaps, the critic may exclaim, and I may 
candidly agree with him. Yet that does not imply that the work was not 
worth doing, and worth doing well. It called for a high order of ability to 
enable one to do it at all. So Mrs. Thorpe became the editor and chief 
author of Temperance Tales, Well-Spring, and Words of Life, all of them 
monthly publications devoted to the causes of temperance, the home, and 
Sunday School. In her case it was "Needs must where Necessity drives." 
Necessity in the form of a sick husband, a growing child, and the cares of a 
household were ever driving her. Her own health was frail, yet she had to 
buckle to, take the reins in her own hands and keep the household buggy from 
disaster. Day after day, month after month, after caring for her baby, and 
her sick husband, preparing the food and doing the housework, she turned to 
her writing. Under these adverse conditions she did her editorial work, and 
later wrote twelve serials for Golden Days, a periodical for young people 
published in Philadelphia. 

While she was living in Chicago she had an interesting experience. At 
this time Judge Albion W. Tourgee, who wrote the famous book, Bricks 
Without Straus was publishing a monthly periodical called Our Continent. 
Mrs. Thorpe and Tourgee were good friends, and she was a regular contribu- 
tor to his magazine. One day she sent him a poem entitled "Wrecked." 
Immediately there came a letter in return, to the effect that her poem had 
given him the strangest experience of his whole literary life. Said he: "I 
have now, in type, a poem entitled "Wrecked," by the well-known author, 
Rose Hawthorne Lathrop. Your titles are alike, your names are alike, and 
the poems are somewhat alike." 

He then suggested that she forward her poem immediately to some other 
editor and he would hold back the publication of the Lathrop poem for a 



Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 23 

while. This Mrs. Thorpe did, and in due time received a check from the 
Youth's Companion for her poem. 

This story was later the means of materially aiding a struggling writer. 
Mrs. Thorpe happened to tell the incidents to a friend, who lived in the East, 
and with whom she was visiting. Some time later, the Saturday Evening 
Post offered a prize for the story of the most interesting literary- experience. 
Seeing this announcement, Mrs. Thorpe's friend wrote her, asking if she might 
use the story and begging her kindly to write it correctly for her. This was 
done, the story entered in the competition, and in due time won the prize. 

For two years Mrs. Thorpe remained in Chicago doing her editorial work. 
Then her husband decided to remove to Grand Rapids, Mich., where a busi- 
ness opening appeared. She then gave up the editorial work, but still con- 
tinued to write stories and poems for the illustrations sent to her. While this 
work was not highly remunerative, it was certain, and this meant a great deal 
to a shrinking, timid person. For, in speaking of her non-success as an author 
from the financial side, she says: 

My financial success as an author has not been great, due, perhaps, in a measure, 
to ray lack of confidence in my ability to write for the best paying publications. My 
pen brought me several hundred dollars yearly before my health failed, but very little 
of the work was purchased by the most popular publications, owing to my extreme 
sensitiveness in submitting my articles to them. I knew where the work would be 
available, though poorly remunerated, and to such publications it was sent. There 
was a time when a returned manuscript found its way immediately into the grate, as 
unworthy of further consideration, but I have learned better than that these later 
years. Often the rejected manuscript of one publication has been the most available 
at another, and gained the greatest popularity afterwards. 

To illustrate this point, Mrs. Thorpe told me the following occurrence. 
She said: "I sent a short story once to a Philadelphia publisher. He returned 
it with a curt note in his own handwriting. (There were no typewriters in 
those days, and I knew his penmanship.) I felt it was a good story and could 
not understand his curt rejection, and I am free to confess it hurt me, for he 
had published several of my stories and had earnestly asked for more. Under 
the lash of my indignation I sent the story to a publisher across the street. In 
due time there came a letter of acceptance, but no check. When the check did 
come it was from the publisher who had rejected the story, and not from the 
one who had accepted it. A letter that followed the check explained that they 
had bought out the firm across the street, and finding an accepted story from 
her, not yet paid for, they had read it, found it most charming, and were glad 
to forward payment for it." 

In writing of this experience, Mrs. Thorpe remarked: 

This was something of a surprise to me. It is only one of the many peculiar 
experiences of any author's life proving conclusively that one person's judgment of 
an article has little to do with its literary merit (and Mrs. Thorpe might have said, 
its popular appeal). The same may be said of critics. One condemns what another 
approves. The song which captivates most hearts is not the scholar's studied produc- 
tion, crammed with superior wisdom, burdened with immense words, the language of 
which does not portray immensity of thought, but those simple heart touches, like the 
spontaneous warble of birds, which stoop to kiss away our tears; which join hands 
with us in our wanderings, and echo our every joy and sorrow. To accomplish the 
most acceptable public work, one must not be "swayed about" by censure or praise, 
other than "to see oursels as ithers see us," may assist in the correction of our acknowl- 
edged faults. 

The Thorpes did not stay long in Michigan, for tuberculosis seized Mr. 
Thorpe and his physician urged an immediate move to San Antonio, Texas. 
Here they resided for about four years, and they both rejoiced in the perfect 



24 Rosa Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 

and complete recovery of Mr. Thorpe's health. He secured a position on the 
railroad that kept him out of doors almost the entire day, and this hastened 
his recovery. 

An interviewer, during her residence in Texas, thus describes Mrs. 
Thorpe : I 

In person she is very tall, straight and slender, of a decided brunette type, and 
while the pallor of her complexion betrays delicate health, increased probably by 
literary toil, the bright glance of her large dark eyes expresses a high degree of 
intellectual activity. Her manners are genial to a marked degree, and not even the 
oft-repeated infliction of the too-inquisitive interviewer affects the equanimity of her 
temper. 

Unfortunately, while the San Antonio climate had restored Mr. Thorpe 
to health, the moist heat of the Texas summers was unsuited to Mrs. Thorpe. 
Yet she wrote many interesting poems during her sojourn here, one of them, 
"Remember the Alamo," often being recited and quoted, and another beauti- 
fully setting forth the floral treasures of the State: 

TEXAS FLOWERS 

These are the flowers of Texas, 

When Spring, of fabled renown, 

Shakes her golden tresses down, 
And lavishly scatters her treasures 

Over fields and meadows brown. 
Sweet little Poppies in pink and white, 
Flapping their wide rimmed caps; 
Demure mother Lark-Spurs, holding tight 

The wee bud Spurs in their laps; 
Shy faced Verbenas in lavender; 

Rain Lilies, so grim and fair; 
The blossom fairies are all astir, 

And Roses bloom everywhere. 
These are the Texas blossoms, 

When Nature's heart throbs and beats 

With her glad pulsating sweets, 
That burst into bloom by the wayside, 

And crowd in the city streets ; 
Pretty post-oak Pinks in scarlet gowns, 

Tall Yucca, a waxen tower; 
Primroses casting their yellow crowns 

At the feet of the Passion Flower ; 
Blue Bonnets stand in the Pomegranate lane, 

While the mountains, stern and bare, 
With Cactus blossoms are all aflame, 

For the flowers are everywhere. 

Again they were compelled to move, and this time it was to San Diego, 
California. From a letter written to a San Antonio paper, dated September 
4, 1887, we learn some interesting impressions of the City of the Silver Gate. 
Mrs. Thorpe said: 

We feel confident that we shall regain our lost health here. We were favored 
with a most delightful journey, the previous rains had cooled the atmosphere and at 
no place, not even while crossing the great desert after leaving Yuma, did we suffer 
with the heat as at San Antonio. We were informed by the train conductor that we 
had an unusually cool and pleasant day for the journey across the desert. At Colton, 
California, we were obliged to put on heavy merino underwear and thicker clothes 
generally. We are now dressed as we would dress for winter there. The air is 
soft, balmy, and cool. The days are all like the loveliest of the whole San Antonio 
year, and we are told by old residents that they are a fair sample of the three hundred 
and sixty-five days which make up the San Diego year. De were favored with 
many solemn prophetic warnings against the health-destroying fogs of this coast city 
before coming here. We have sun and fogs. We dread them no longer. They 



Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 25 

will not injure the weakest lungs. A thin, gray mist in the early morning through 
which one may see the hills three miles away, and which lifts from eight to nine 
o'clock. This morning at seven o'clock the sun kissed the distant hill tops, and in a 
quarter of an hour the whole country and rich blue water beyond was bathed in its 
genial warmth. When the sun's rays pierce the hazy fog-curtains the atmosphere is 
as dry as even San Antonio can boast of. The beauty of scenery and advantages 
of the city have been fully explained by the real estate men, and we will not attempt 
to compete with them in this respect. Their statements, according to our judgment, 
have not been overdrawn. Men of ambition and energy may find abundant employ- 
ments here. Gold does not lie in the streets for indigent and unworthy hands to gather, 
but there is work for those who are willing to accept of it. Labor is even solicited, 
as our own experience can prove. Every one is busy, there are no street loungers. 
The sparkling eye, the elastic step, the brisk tone, the hurried movements, all speak 
of business activity. The rush and bustle are bewildering to one accustomed to a 
climate of siestas. Have seen no Mexicans or Indians or Negroes since our arrival. 
They may be here, but they are not on the streets. Judging from the appearance of 
things here one might venture to say that Americans take the lead in all things pertain- 
ing to San Diego. No foreign element can crowd them out or supersede them. There 
may be saloons; there certainly is real estate. It is the latter and not the former 
which thrusts itself upon one's notice. There is no room or place for indolence here; 
enterprise and energy soon crowd it out, when it is at liberty to return to other places 
and circulate damaging stories of the place which did not support it. Whoever can 
use a hammer need not go hungry in San Diego. Its busy ring sounds on all sides 
of us as we write. It echoes from hillside and valley, and elegant homes and majestic 
business blocks and warehouses and depots and vast hotels spring up beneath its 
sturdy blows. A little more than two years ago San Diego numbered three thousand 
inhabitants; there are not less than fifteen thousand today, and every train and ocean 
steamer coming into the depot or the harbor come loaded with new arrivals. Rents 
are very high. Dry goods and groceries about the same as San Antonio. Fruits and 
vegetables exceedingly cheap and fine. 

To another Eastern paper she wrote more impressions of San Diego, in 
1887, and these are worth preserving: 

We have seen the snow in all its sparkling beauty on the hills of Michigan; have 
sweltered under the tropical skies of Southern Texas; have experienced the blizzards 
of the North and the "red-bugs" of the South; have been parched and frozen by turns, 
and we now conclude that when God placed Adam upon the earth in its most favored 
spot, that spot was San Diego, California. Not for its beauty of scenery, especially 
though where in all the earth has Nature unveiled such glorious panoramic views as 
spread out before the delighted gaze from Coronado Beach, Florence Heights, or any 
of the numerous elevations about the city, lying as it does between the mountains 
and the ocean. Not for its wealth of scenic display would this seem to have been 
the chosen location for that "earthly paradise," but for its perfection of climate. No 
cold-breathed "northers" sweep across its hills, no frost blights its tender plants, no 
fervid heat. One glad perpetual Spring expanding and perfecting into Summer, 
wearing the somber tints of Autumn, but never the icy winding sheet of Winter. Such 
is the climate that is luring all peoples to seek a home in this "Eden of America." 
Lying on the sparkling, sunlit bay, with the grand old ocean just beyond, with a 
harbor of unrivalled excellence, San Diego is destined to become a metropolis in the 
near future. With all the grandeur of its ocean views it escapes much of the annoy- 
ance of those dense fogs which visit other coast cities. With bold Point Loma on 
the West and North, like a gigantic arm thrust out in to the ocean, a wall of protection 
and defense for the city at its base, shielding it from the fierce north winds and 
holding the fogs at bay. Beyond those highlands the fogs may be seen rising in dense 
clouds and darkening the far-off sky, while the city basks in the warmth of genial 
sunshine. To be sure some of the fogs reach us, but, at most, they are only a thin 
mist soon pierced and lifted by the warm sun rays. 

Mrs. Thorpe has lived long enough in San Diego to see many of her 
prophecies and hopes come true. This enterprising City of the Silver Gate, 
whose Harbor of the Sun is the first port of call on the United States' western 
coast for vessels coming through the Panama Canal, has just concluded its 
successful run of a great International Exposition for two years — a feat never 
before attempted, I believe, by any city in the world. She has seen its popu- 



26 Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 

lation increase to over a hundred thousand ; a railroad almost completed, giving 
it direct Eastern railway communication ; the desert region of its "back coun- 
try" converted by means of the waters of the Colorado River into the agricul- 
tural marvel of the world — the Imperial Valley; its equable climate so 
recognized that both the Government and the Curtiss Aviation Schools are 
firmly and permanently established there. She has seen the great and beautiful 
buildings of the Headquarters of the Universal Brotherhood and Theosophical 
Society, under the guidance of Katherine Tingley, rise into oriental glory, and 
surrounded by a flower garden and planted forest scarce equalled in the world. 
Here, too, Madame Tingley built the first open-air California Theater, rival- 
ing in native attractions any one of the open-air theaters of Ancient Greece. 
She has seen one of the colossal hotels of modern civilization — Hotel Del 
Coronado — rise above the sands, facing the Pacific ; an open-air stadium built 
for the people of San Diego, capable of seating nearly forty thousand people ; 
and the only open-air organ of the world donated to its people by one of its 
most enterprising citizens, John D. Spreckles. And she has loved the city the 
while, — as why should she not? Her own health perfectly restored, her hus- 
band in good health, and a fair degree of business prosperity given to them. 
Her husband's years of training and experience as a carriage-maker had made 
him skillful in the use of tools, and as the "boom" was on when he arrived in 
San Diego, he found good-paying work from the start. His practice in design- 
ing carriages made him almost a natural architect from the beginning of his 
attempts, and with the aid of his wife he planned some of the finest houses 
of the earlier modern San Diego. He then contracted and built them. Pacific 
Beach, a suburb of San Diego, was their residence for several years, and also 
the charming La Jolla-by-the-Sea, and in both of these places there are many 
houses of his planning and erection. He was elected to the City Council, 
which position he held for five years, and could have remained in office almost 
at will, so highly was he esteemed by his fellow-citizens. 

After many years of happiness together, the call for separation came quite 
suddenly. On Thursday, November 16, 1916, Mrs. Thorpe left her husband 
on the street, in his automobile, to go to the Joaquin Miller Day celebration at 
the Exposition, in order to meet Miss Juanita Miller, the daughter of the poet. 
Less than half an hour afterwards she was called home to find her beloved 
companion had already "crossed the bar" and had met his Pilot "face to face." 
It was one of his great joys that the Exposition had honored his wife b\ 
naming a Day for her, and he was anticipating its ceremonies with pleasure. 

He, personally, had considerable literary ability, which, had he cared to 
cultivate it, would have made him famous. He had a special penchant for 
writing the broken English of a Dutchman, and some of his lubrications are 
decidedly clever. For instance, here are his lines on 

DOT BACIFIC PEACH FLEA 

Oh, dot flea, dot flea, 
Dot schump-buggery flea, 

Vot schumps und viggles und bites, 
He skips von side oop, 
Und der under side down, 

Und keepen me avake effry nights. 



Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 27 

He climbs on der ped, 
Und stands on hees head, 

Und cuts oop all manner ouf pranks, 
Und ven I got oop, 
Dot pooger to schoop, 

Mine vrow, she calls me some cranks. 

Right avay, pooty qvick, 
I vas schleeping so schlick, 

As schoost never vas, maypee, 
Und mine vrow she schump oud, 
Und vent schlappin apoud, 

Und I dinks her vas gotten dot flea. 

After her arrival in California, for a while Mrs. Thorpe did little writing, 
until a burden came upon her. Her father became very ill, indeed lost his 
mind for a time; at the same time a friend died and left her young daughter in 
Mrs. Thorpe's care. The child had been almost untrained, and the duty of 
disciplining her and at the same time raising enough money to give her beloved 
father the care he needed, while attending to her own household and still not 
too strong husband, were not aids to great literary endeavor. Yet she bravely 
started in and wrote a story of California life, which was published in the 
Happy Days of Philadelphia. 

In addition she wrote several descriptive poems, setting forth the charms 
of the region, several of which are herewith reproduced: 

MISSION' BAY 

Beyond the bay the city lies, 

White-walled beneath the azure skies, 

So far remote, no sounds of it 

Across the peaceful waters flit. 

I watch its gleaming lights flash out, 

When twiJight girds herself about 

With ocean damps. When her dusk hair 

Wide-spread fills all the salt sea air, 

And her slow feet, 
Among the fragrant hillside shrubs, 

Stirs odors sweet. 

Fair Mission Bay, 

Now blue, now gray, 
Now flushed bv sunset's after glow, 
Thy rose hues take the tint of fawn 
At dawn of dusk and dusk of da nn. 

On another occasion she wrote of the same bay : 

MISSION' BAY 

God's placid mirror, Heaven crowned, 

Framed in the brown hills circling round 

Not envious that thy sister can 

More fully meet the needs of man, 

Nor jealous that her broader breast 

Is sacrificed at man's request, 

While in the shelter of her arm 

The storm-tossed resteth safe from harm. 



28 Rosa Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 

This thy grand mission, Mission Bay — 
To smile serene through blue or gray; 
To take whatever God has sent, 
And teach mankind full content. 
Low swaying pepper boughs; blooms of magnolia; 
Summer and sunshine, and roses galore; 
Song of the mocking bird, 
Morning and evening heard; 
Murmurous waves breaking white on the shore. 

Fogs marching up from the breast of the ocean; 
Languorous moons sailing into the west; 

Fruitage of tree and vine, 

All the year summer time; 
Harbor of safety, and haven of rest. 

The glorious flowers of California, with their wonderful profusion, could 
not fail to stimulate such an imagination as hers, and here is her poem entitled: 

THE CALIFORNIA POPPY 

Flowers of the West-land with calyx of gold, 

Swung in the breeze over lace-woven sod ; 

Filled to the brim with the glory of God, 
All that its wax-petaled chalices can hold. 
This was the birth of it. On the brown plain, 
The sun dropped a kiss in the foot-prints of rain. 

In addition to this she wrote one on the flowers as a whole : 

HOW THE FLOWERS CAME 

'Twas seed time in Heaven, the angel whose care 
Is for Eden's blossoms: that angel more fair 
Than all her fair sisters, twin spirits of air, 

That angel whose footsteps wherever they tread, 

Spring up into blossoms, blue, yellow and red; 
That angel whose teardrops, wherever they fall, 
Give birth to white lilies, the fairest of all; 

That angel whose -breath is the perfume of flowers, 

Had spent all the jewel-gemmed, paradise hours 
Of the roseate morn where beauties unfold 
In calyx of crimson and purple and gold. 
Beside the great portals she paused and looked through, 
Down, down the vast distance, of star-lighted blue, 

Beheld the gray rocks, without beauty or bloom, 

And sighed for earth's children away in the gloom. 
"No beauty or bloom hath the children of woe; 
No brightness; no sweetness; my hand will bestow 
One heaven-born seed for their garden below," 

She said as she loosened her girdle to find 

One seed which was fairest, and best of its kind. 
Her eager hand trembled, the girdle slipped through 
Her rosy-tipped fingers, and down through the blue, 
Down, down the vast distance, her golden seeds flew. 

Some caught in the crevice of rocks, others fell 

In lone desert places, by wayside and dell; 
On hills and in valleys; in forest and glen, 
To gladden and brighten the journeys of men. 

At the portals of heaven, with sorrowful face, 

The little flow'r angel looks out into space, 
In search of her treasures. Her tears, as they fall, 
Find all her lost seedlings, and water them all. 



Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 29 

Here is her trustful easter song: 

Awaken, sweet flowers! 
The snow in the valley has melted at last, 
And the desolate sights of the year is past; 
The ice chains are broken, and robins are singing — 
Awake to the call of the Easter bells ringing; 

Awaken, O heart! 
In bondage of sin thou hast slumbered so long, 
Arise in the beauty and rapture of song, 
Arise in the gladness of nature's adorning — 
Come forth in thy strength on this glad 

Easter morning. 

Though a member of one of the so-calleil old orthodox churches, she has a 
broad outlook upon life. As I have shown, she is a strong and ardent advocate 
for prohibition and woman's suffrage, and her religious views are broad and 
tolerant. She has a growing and enlarging faith in the goodness of God. She 
feels that life's problems all disappear as we lose fear and are able to rest abso- 
lutely upon the promises of God. One of the poems that expresses her relig- 
ious feeling she entitled "His Second Coming." This was written long before 
she had heard of Mrs. Mary Baker G. Eddy or Christian Science. Long 
afterwards a Scientist desired a copy, which was given, and it was published in 
the Christian Science Journal. Soon afterwards a friend attended a Christian 
Science lecture in Chicago, where an audience of many thousands was assem- 
bled. After delivering a soul-stirring and eloquent address the lecturer closed 
with the last stanza of this poem : 

And all the world over, the people 

Are spreading the blessing abroad, 
Are cleansing the depth of the fountain, 
Are climbing the heights of the mountain, 

Are waiting the coming of God! 

In 1912 all her poems were gathered together in one handsome volume, 
and issued by the Neale Publishing Co. of New York. 

Since then she has written but little, though on occasion a poem has come 
from, her pen, as, for instance, when, at the Michigan Day exercises at the 
Panama-Pacific Exposition, held in Festival Hall, Mrs. Thorpe was one of 
the most honored of the great State's guests. At that time she read the 
following: 

With face looking full in the face of the sun ; 

With breath of the pines, and the lilac new blown, 

Our Michigan sits like a queen on the throne 

Where true worth has placed her. Her laurels all won 

By patient endeavor through wearisome years; 

By slow, but sure progress; hope conquering fears. 

No indolent child of the tropics is she, 

But strong as the North winds that sweep o'er her breast, 

She garners new strength through ambitious unrest. 

With muscles firm-fashioried, heart loyal and free, 

She sits in her daisy-decked mantle of state, 

A sea at her Eastern and Wester'most gate. 

Where Pontiac fought for his people's birthright, 
Grand forests have bowed, mighty waters have spanned; 
The elk, beaver and deer deserted the land 
When Civilization advanced in her might. 
The Wigwam has vanished and Temples of Art, 
Like blossoms have grown out of Michigan's heart. 



30 Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 

Long past are her venturesome days of romance; 
Her cowslip-grown marshes are meadows of grain; 
Her orchards are countless on hillside and plain. 
From log hut to mansion her dwellings advance, 
With churches magnificent, schools at the van; 
Abreast of the times is our own Michigan. 

To the needs of the world she opens her breast, 

At its call she yields the rich ore of her mines. 

She has wealth in factories, orchards and pines; 

In manifold blessings, abundantly blest, 

Successively crowned with snow-garlands and flowers, 

What State can excel her, this mother of ours? 

We have come to the land where the sun goes down ; 
Where a continent bends to the kiss of the sea; 
Where Winters are verdant and Summers are brown, 
We bask in its sunshine; but loyal are we 
To Michigan, home of our childhood afar, 
All honor to her for the best that we are. 

One has but to look at her face to see that she is essentially a dreamer. 
Though a grandmother, there is the same preoccupation often revealed in her 
eyes that led her to write Curfew rather than her lessons. Indeed she often 
laughingly comments upon this feature of her character. She says: "I know 
I'm a dreamer. I am sure to forget the most important dish whenever I have 
company to dinner, and then I get so embarrassed that I do worse things." 

It is interesting here to record some of the history of the little book in 
which "Curfew" was transcribed with the pen. For many years it was lost 
and practically forgotten. Then one day some friends of Mrs. Thorpe sent 
her a copy of the Chicago Interocean in which was the account of the finding, 
in an old house that was being renovated, of a trunk-full of children's treas- 
ures and old yellow papers, among them a book full of written verses, one of 
which was "Curfew," doubtless in the handwriting of its author. It was 
evident to Mrs. Thorpe that this was her long-lost manuscript book. Immedi- 
ately she wrote to the lady in whose possession the book was said to be, offering 
to buy it at any reasonable price, as it contained the treasures of her girlhood. 
With the sweetest spirit imaginable the holder of the book sent it by return 
mail, saying that she had no desire to receive any financial emolument from 
the returning of a treasured book to its original owner; so today Mrs. Thorpe 
is happy in its possession. 

This book is now before me. I am free to confess I should like to quote 
many little things from it, but its owner is rather sensitive about her early 
poetic effusions. It ought to be stated, however, that this book was supposed 
to be a diary which Rose was to write, rather than a repository for her verses. 
The diary, however, soon proved to be a hollow mockery, and the book was 
openly given up to nothing but verses and an, occasional prose composition. 
One of these is full of tender thoughts about her mother, and another, written 
on her sixteenth birthday, is full of that vague, unsatisfied something that 
young girls so often feel. She looks back, too, through the "long bright years 
of her childhood," and also forward to the possible joys of the "dark and uncer- 
tain future." Then, a little later, she tells of a visit made to the place of her 
birth, which she had not seen for six years. That she had the poetic tempera- 
ment none can deny who reads this tender effusion, though he may not keep 
back the smile as he reads of the "jentle brease" that moved the tall grass "too 
and froe" in the churchyard where sleep "many who sported with her in the 
long ago." One composition, dated Sunday, July the 13th, 1866, must have 



Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 31 

been written after she had been to church, where the preacher drew vivid pic- 
tures of an innocent child yielding, as he grew older, to temptation and finallv 
coming to a sad and tragic end. It is entitled "The Two Pictures," and would 
outshine many a young cub reporter's first attempts. 

The effect of the Civil War also is seen in warlike poems: One entitled 
''Brothers' Meeting," possessing some strong lines, as, for instance: 

Not as they parted met they now, 

No! Stamped upon each marble brow, 

Bloodless as yet, 
Hate shone, and in their angry eyes 
Was mingled scorn, disdain, surprise, 
As there, beneath the broad blue skies, 

Those brothers met. 

Another tells of a maiden who seeks her lover upon the battlefield. One 
stanza reads : 

He, too, was there! the leader and his band, 
And their blood had moistened sod and sand, 
He was there! but the light from his eye had fled, 
And the one she had sought was cold and dead: 
With the bloody sword in his hand still grasp'd 
And the flag of the free to his bosom clasp'd. 

The tragic denouement is told in the last stanza, as follows: 

Down by the side of the dead she lay, 
The living cheek to the cheek of clay. 
The living cheek? No! anguish and pain, 
Can never trouble her bosom again. 
She is there at rest by her warrior's side, 
In death how lovely — his beautiful bride. 

There is much of interest and illumination in these pages to the psycholo- 
gist, for they were written without the slightest self-consciousness behind them. 
They are the perfect outpourings of a maiden's mind and reveal her as she 
actually was. 

Now, after long years of a life made rich and beautiful by many and 
varied experiences, she rests by the Harbor of the Sun. Her home is on a 
hillside, near the top, its large four-windowed sun-porch overlooking one of 
the superlative views of the world. Here Mrs. Thorpe sits and reads, medi- 
tates, writes and greets her friends. Immediately in front, shutting out the 
view of the Pacific Ocean, is the irregular but bold line of Point Loma. To 
its right a tiny glimpse of Mission Bay is had, while Loma Portal, with its 
wealth of new and elegant residences, followed by Rosedale, La Playa, Fort 
Rosecranz, and the glistening domes of the magnificent temples of the head- 
quarters of the Theosophical Society and Universal Brotherhood, the towers 
of the Federal Wireless Station, and the old Lighthouse line the top of 
the Point. 

Then, as the eye sweeps eastward, there follow North Island, Coronado, 
with its pinnacled hotel and groups of trees, beyond which is a point in Mexico 
on the lower side of the Tia Juana River. In the foreground is the slope 
leading the eye down to the shallow waters of this part of the bay, the appear- 
ance reminding Mrs. Thorpe of the marshes of her Michigan home. Then 
comes the wide sweep of the bay to right and left, the narrow outlet to the 
Pacific, past Ballast Point and the Quarantine Station, while on the left lie 
the wharves, the municipal pier and many of the big business blocks of the new, 
thriving and progressive San Diego, beyond which is more of the bay, hemmed 



31! Rosa Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 

in by the Silver Strand, and the Mexican Mountains to the south. Even then 
the picture is not complete. Far out at sea, where the sun kisses the ocean in 
pearly irridescence, lie the Coronados Islands, the two principal ones looking 
for all the world like giant monuments of old European Crusaders found in 
the dim aisles of quiet cathedrals. Here they suggest Nature's monuments to 
the old Spanish Conquistadores — Coronado himself and Juan de Onate, per- 
haps, lying a few miles apart, with feet pointing almost in the same direction. 

Imagine this glorious scene at night-time, when Point Loma from end to 
end is lit up with vivid electric lights, the few lights of the Government Avia- 
tion Station setting forth North Island, while its sister island of Coronado 
glistens and shines in the corruscations of a thousand electric bulbs and arcs 
on the hotel, in homes, and on streets, while San Diego itself is ablaze until 
long after midnight with the wealth of lights our modern cities feel to be a 
necessity. 

The sight is an inspiration either night or day, but by day busy, bustling. 
active life adds its own peculiar charm. Fussy motor boats dart to and fro; 
vessels with sails, yachts and schooners attract the eye with their spreading 
white canvas glistening in the sun, while stately ocean steamers and the pon- 
derous steel-clad armored cruisers of the navy add solemn and majestic dignity 
to the scene. Aeroplanes and hydroplanes, like gigantic dragon-flies, skim over 
the water, shoot up into the air, or dart down in skillfully directed volplane 
back to earth or water, suggesting giant condors soaring from the earth. 

Then, too, these same vessel movements on the bay often serve to enhance 
the glory of the night scene, for when battleships, passenger steamers, and 
vessels of all kinds are lit up, and their white, green and red lights dance in 
noiseless measure on the surface of the waves, there is a new beauty, an alluring 
attraction of the night that thrills with its suggestions. The stately ferry- 
boats, brilliantly lighted, silently glide back and forth between Coronado and 
San Diego, or across to Fort Rosecranz, while now and again, like an elephant 
among burros, a great passenger steamer, all aglow with electrically-lit state- 
rooms, each port-hole sending forth a vivid bull's-eye of light, comes in from 
the ocean and silently moves to its appointed pier. 

It surely is a place for poet's fancies and writer's dreams, and there need 
be no surprise that Mrs. Thorpe finds great delight in what it so generously 
affords her. 




PtJu* 



lOtV\y<J 



erf ^<fe ^/^^^^^/^^7 

t ^ ir ,, . vr t. t n -ir » T T V <S ArUm4/t?/~- 



L V E AND LOYALTY 



BT A NEW CONTRIBUTOR. 



/JfUW /< &C74 '■ 



The story I mean to tell you is one of love's 
heroism. It has come down to me through 
many generations, accompanying a picture of 
a fair young girl, aljout whose brow cluster 
masses of waving brown hair; whose face is elo- 
quent with the sublime faith and beauty of the 
old legend. She looks down upon me, from the 
canvas, out of sad, brown eyes. Her hands are 
nervously clutching a bit of parchment which 
she holds from her. One can see the deep, 
rough ways she has gone through for that 
scrawl. It is all told in the earnest grasp, in 
the fixed brow, and the straightened lines of 
the face. She seizes it as one might clutch 
from death a precious life. Looking up at her 
pure Saxon face, one knows why that staunch 
Cavalier, Basil Underwood, loved her — that he 
was worthy to be loved by her. 

She was only a forester's child; the only one 
of the head keeper at Underwood Hall, down in 
the south country, but a pet and plaything up 
at the hall during her babyhood; educated, and 
almost adopted there as one' of the baron's 
family in her girlhood. In that way she was 
lifted out of the forester's cottage in the world 
of the then fashion; and it is told that once, at 
£^ney_fe,te, or assembly, she was graciously 
'jmilea upon, by that first Charles, for whose 
grace and beauty we have great sympathy even 
unto this day. One thing she learned that day, 
as, leaning on the arm of the baron's son, she 
courtesied lowly to the courtly Charles, that was 
not in her book at homef love for king before 
her, and love for Cavalier heside her. That 
which she gave the king, she called loyalty, and 
quite a different thing it was from that which 
she meted out to the comely Basil. How could 
it have been otherwise? She and he so long 
playmates and friends at the hall? They fell 
into Cupid's snare as one might walk over a 
bank in sleep. The old baron and his wife 
were of the simpler sort, and seeing which way 
love ran, consented to let it run smoothly, and 
for that a blessing on their old hearts, which 
have been dust these twojjundred years, and 
more. 

But the dark days h»d come to "Merrie Eng- 
land" now. There were a goodly majority in 
that little island who objected that royal Charles, 
and royal Charles' Cavaliers should wear their 



hair as Absalom wore his. So these objectors, 
as a suggestive method of expressing their dis- 
pleasure, shaved their own off close to 'their 
crowns; yet, with less than no effect on contu- 
macious Charles, for king and Cavalier still wore 
their flowing curls, and, in derision of their ob- 
jectors, called them Roundheads. But these 
Roundheads were men of terrible earnestness 
and meaning. They fancied, in their earnest 
way, that England was going wrong, and that 
it was their work to stop her on her fatal way. 
I am afraid they had no very strong opinion of 
expediency; but when (hey saw a lie and wrong 
they smote it down, not stopping to bless it, 
cither, as they smote. There were certain truths 
they held, which they thought the world should 
learn, and, with Bible and sword in hand, they 
went forth to teacli them. Revolutions seldom 
lack leaders — this one did not. A man, pano- 
plied like a god for the hour, ita' surged up 
from the depths of the people to set right old 
-England's wrong. Looking at this Cromwell, 
.now, through some old portraits of the libraries, 
one sees not a cruel face- It always seemed to 
me to express the sorrows of a race gone wrong, 
a sublime face pregnant with the stern meaning 
of the time. I know of those hard lines about 
the mouth, the square jaw, and the tiger glare 
of the eyes. But under it all the man's heart 
pulsed finely as a woman's. It was full of an 
infinite tenderness — majestic with a purpose that 
looked down the ages. Kent's loyalty to poor 
old Lear is one of those stories that always touch 
me to tears through its beauty and pathos; but' 
Cromwell's loyalty to his God and to England 
is a spectacle sublime and beautiful forever. It 
has made the sou of a brewer walk side by sido 
with kings and queens, crowned lordlier than 
them all through two hundred years of history. 
But this is history, which you know better than 
I,' and not the story I meant to tell you.. 

The hall was deserted now, and tenantless; 
the baron's family had fled before the approach 
of the army of the Puritans. Basil was some- 
where in the ranks of. Charles; Bessie, m her 
glory of youth and- loveliness, had again gone 
home to the cottage, not a very suitable place 
for her now after the luxury and indulgence of 
the hall. But her true heart bowed loyally to 
life's duties; sad, too, were the long wintry 

185 






186 t-OVE AND LOYALTY. 



days, and longer evenings, when 6he no longer 5 mond panes into the clear blue of the sky. The 
saw the face of her lover. But to the heart's : refrain of an old Puritan hymn from the camp, 
core he was loyal to her as to his king. More j sweet, tender, and mournful, was wafted to 
than once had the neighing of his horse been • them on the wind. "It is for me, Bessie, girl. 
heard outside the 'cottage on these long nights, :. It beckons me away, dear." 
even though between him and his love stretched f The girl, pale and trembing, started to her 
the, long line of the opposing army. : ; feet, lie had been ill all day, she knew, but 

She loved him as most young maidens love,'.- not ill like this; his mind Wandered now, and 
with an entire abnegation of self; so that though J the new thought that drove out the old one was 
her happiness was only full when he was with \ of fields beyond the confines of the hall — beyond 
her, yet she would have banished him forever ;■ human ken. The dog, roused from his slumber 
rather than he should run such risk of death in < by the girl's cry, dragged himself slowly over 
seeking her. Her tears and pleadings that he •! to his master's side, and laid his head upon his 
would consider his own safety were laughingly 5 knee, with a look of unutterable affection and 
thrust aside, and set at naught. "He bore a J, yearning, as if he knew. Bessie held her 
charmed life," he said, "against the Round- ji father's head upon her breast, sobbing softly 
head's bullets; he knew the secret ways, the ; under her breath, and brushed the white hair 
hidden paths familiar to him from his boyhood, 5 from his temples. The old dog whined now and 
which they could not know. There was no J again, asking, in his poor way, for a parting 
danger," he would say, tenderly shaking the ; word. It came at last — to him, not to the child, 
rich masses of her brown hair; "and if there \ "Old True! we know the forest nooks! The 
were, I must brave them for the sake of some- ; secret places where the hare and pheasant hide; 
times seeing this dear face." He was so strong, ; for so many days we have known them together. 
and brave, and wise, this Cavalier of the olden ; Old True — old True!" 

time, that he could not sec or fear danger; and ; Sobbing loudly now, the girl bent over him, 
death was for old men, not for lovers and sol- i begging him to speak to her; softly the mooh- 
diers of the good King Charlie. So hepushe'd < light, crept up his feet, and breast, and lay lil»e 
danger and death aside, and by the old secret J a glory of peace and beauty on his fair and sil- 
ways- came once too often to visit his fconnie I vered hair. There were sounds of horses' hoofs 
forest blossom. 5 without;" the door swung open, and Basil stood 

A still, starlit night settled down upon hall, > there, one of a silent group, one of which was 
and church, and cottage. The moon, rising 5 as yet invisible. The opening door disturbed 
slowly above the hills, revealed afar-off the ;. the old forester out of his dream; it may have 
■white tents of the Roundheads;-. In the old J been of one of the bright days gone; or his in- 
church-tower beyond, the bell tolled the hour of s troverted gaze may have been fixed, «pon~fAt.'^ 

i^urfew. In the cottage the lights were out, and s fairer than any Ids feet yet had passed; or, who 
by the ombers of the fire, where, dreamed and 5 knows, it may. have dwelt upon the presence, 
dozed a dog, sat the forester. Too old and J whose voice he seemed to hear in that mind 
■weather-worn for a soldier, he feebly wended his 5 awhile ago. He' looked up, recognizing Basil, 
way, until late days, through the forest, accom- ij "You will take care of Bessie, and of old True?" 
panied by his old, dog, True, unmolested by i; The invisible presence in the room became visi- 

' Cavalier or Roundhead. When the baron came • ble, and in that chill hour the soul of fhc old 
back to the hall, he should find nothing amiss i forester was required of him. 
there, the old'man thought. But to-night, with i . From the neighboring hamlets came the sim- 
Bessie nestled at his knee, a new thought re- >, pie foresters; and from the tented village came 
placed the old. All the days he had lived came < the bronzed soldiers by one or two's, or larger 
back to bim to-night; they passed before him $ groups, to do reverence to the memory of then- 
like a splendid pr.geant. There was a tree over- ? old friend of the forest. So, with life-long 
hanging the low gabled roof, one of its branches 5 friends about her, they took her precious dead 
swayed in a gentle wind against the gothic win- i and laid him under the shadow of the tower, bc- 
dow, through which the moonlight fell in a J side the true old wife who had gone thither be- 
wonderful radiance. It stretched across the $ fore him.' 

room to the old man's feet, resting there, a; Basil would nofleave her until the last duty 
golden path to the heavens above him. The ■: was done, and meanwhile was in hiding in one 
noise against the window startled him from this $ of the numerous forest fastnesses of which ha 
new thought into which his mind had fallen, ; so well knew. When night had come again, he 
and he turned and looked out through the dia- '. was standing there beside her in the sombre 



LOVE AND LOYALTY. 187 



tf//J*/^f^fr*fssr**-'-' 



glimmer of the cottage fire. "I will remain ;; that the old father nor Basil were no longer 
here," she said; "the Roundheads never are !; there. They would not come again — never 
rude to me." In the forest's walks ihey often > again, never! That was her loss; she knew it 
met her, doing homage roughly out of their man- 1; all now. Father and Basil could not come 
hood's loyalty to a pure and saintly presence, s again — saying it over to herself. But God's 
A sort of chivalric loyalty that men imbibe I- love, and father's and Basil's love were with 
as they lie in babyhood upon the breasts of.": her yet. She "Snew that. Her soul was strong 
mothers. She clung to him now with love's •; in that; but the poor, weak heart sobbed itself 
nerce tenacity, and besought him-to incur dan- 5 to sleep; and the man who had cared for her, 
ger no more, by absenting himself from the ^ laid down upon the rug before the fire, loyally 
forest unftl the happier time had come when \ watching over her, loyally praying for good 
they could meet in peaceful, undisturbed loving, s King Charles and Master Basil. "God forefend 
Her tears fell fast upon the hand she held ; and J them both by forest-path and open field ; in court 
while her pleading voice made a music in his s and camp, in life and death, God find them with 
heart, sweet as song of birds, he gave her the \ their Christly armor ffa\" A goodly prayer, 
promise to cross the stern old Roundhead's lines ; to which let all true hearts echo, Amen! 
no more. For a long moment he held her close J The young Cavalier, pursuing his saddened' 
to his great, wide breast, stroking tenderly her ; thought, had never slackened pace until the 
shining hair and tear-wet cheek. A trusty 5 forest and its lengthened shadows were lying, 
forest friend was bringing his horses up to the J ghost-like, behind him. But now, striking the 
<cotta"ge, his steps was heard outside. Much pain * hard, open road, more caution was necessary, 
and sorrow had exhausted the girl's natural j though the enemy's lines had been passed, and 
strength: and when he pressed his lips to her $ the tread of the far out-lying pickets tvas no 
cheek, she was unconscious that he did so. . A ; longer distinguishable. He rode carefully, look- 
low, warning word from outside, gaye him j ing ithead into the gloom of the night, watchful 
notice that he must not linger longer. He'Iaid s of any horseman in advance of him. No one 
the girl tenderly down upon a rude settle by- 5 in advance, but behind the reverberation of 
the fire, and leaping to the saddle, commended" 5 iron-shod feet in the road. A single horseman. 
Tier to the care of the man who stood there with Jj too. It might be a foeman, but it was not yet 
his horse. The forester, giving him the bridle, 5 time for flight; time enough for that -when 
said, "Ride fast to-night, your hand upon your s challenged, and the odds against him. He 
sword. Bear no man company; there is mount- ; slackened his speed, and drew the rein closer 
ing in hastein the camp yonder, as if in pursuit. > to the foot-path. 

-Ty^ff, i^4*B£er in the forest to-night; whispers I "Who goes there?" This challenge from the 
of spies from the royal forces abroad. Take > rider, who had now come up with him. "A 
heed that no man bear you company." \ friend, if friendly provrn," replied theCavalier, 

"Fear not for me, good Luke; they have no > laying his hand quietly on the sword's hilt. 
Euch mettle in their steeds as this one boasts. 5 "A fair night, friend." "A fair night, friend," 
He and my sword Will be safeguards enough > answered Basil. "What of the cause, ."riend?" 
against any single foeman." ■: Basil leaned forward, that he might see the face 

He rode swiftly away over the yielding sward, $ of the new-found friend, and answered the last 
and soon became undistinguishable amid the !: challenge, "For God and King Charles, the- 
low-hanging foliage. 5 cause prospers." "We will ride in company, 

"A venturesome youth is Basil," said Luke, 5 and so it please jiou; two swords being better 
as he went within the cottage; and seeing the 5 than one." "An it please you, we will," was 
slight form of the beautiful girl upon the settle, J Basil's reply. The man was no foeman. The 
added, "So would I have been in my hot day $ questions he gave showed him to be of the camp 
of youth for maiden fair as this." v of the Cavaliers. A face little seen under the 

Not the best nurse for a delicate girl, but as; slouched beaver he' wore; but that little seen 
true, delicate, tender a one as any woman. ] had nothing prepossessing in it, to our young 
The fine, sweet instinct of loyalty to woman- \ friend Basil; a face to shun when met by the 
hood'was in his heart, filling each drop of warm J road-side, on a dark night, when one's sword 
blood e»ursing£bere. J rested in its sheath at home. A scowling, 

He chafed her nands, and threw some water >, mean face, full of subtility and cunning; a face 
in her face, when the soft, brown, eyes opened s for foul deeds and b,lack work. A spy— the man 
wide on him in a gaze of wonder and inquiry. $ against whom he had been warned. To be cap- 
Then Ihoy slowly closed again — for she saw 1 tured in his company was death — worse than 

Voi.. XLVIII.— 11 



188 



LOVE AND LOYALTY. 



death ignominy. How was lie to shake him off? 
They were both enlisted in the same good cause, 
one for love and one for hire. How did he 
know that? This fellow beside him might have 
as fine instincts of loyalty as any that warmed 
his own heart, and fired it to heroic deeds. This 
vile, low face, might be only a mask, hiding a 
right loyal soul. Yet against this man the 
warning had been spoken. What matter? He 
would take the risk; was not the danger all 
left behind in the camp of the Roundheads? 
But. in the solemn hush of the night, he raised 
his hat and prayed- for King Charles, the lady 
of his love, and his own safety. 

Rashly, madly resolved, young Cavalier i The 
enemy was upon them. From a bit of forest 
lying adjacent to the road-side the Roundheads 
swarmed down upon them. Stern work was 
there. Twenty stern old soldiers setting to 
■work to capture two men who defiantly faced 
them with swords out, and death in their eyes. 
It lasted but a moment. There was a sharp 
clash of steel, a resounding blow from the 
sword of Basil upon a Roundhead's steel cuirass, 
which sent the trooper reeling from his seat, 
and shattered -the young Catalier's weapon. 
That was the end of it. Basil, unarmed, was 
easily made prisoner now. The spy was already 
captured and bound. They searched them on 
the ground where they had fought. From the 
dress of the spy they took convincing evidence 
of his guilt — plans and drawings of their 
works — specifications of their numbers — and 
descriptions of their arms. 

What will poor Bessie say when she hears of 
this? Poor Bessie! with the dead face of the 
father lying there only yesterday, and his dead 
face to-morrow! His! God help poor Bessie! 
And God help them all!. Amen. 

They carried them to the foot of the hill, 
where quietly rested a few hamlets and the 
gray old church, with its ivy-covered tower 
looming up hundreds of feet into the night. 
The prisoners were taken to a low-gabled 
building on the outskirts of the hamlet — a thick, 
stone-walled house, with hcavily-mullioned win- 
dows, looking out into the dark street and fields. 
About the door stood a group of grim-visaged 
soldiers, silent and stern, looking keenly into 
the face of the young Cavalier, but speaking no 
word. They passed through a long, low room, 
wainscotted half-way to the ceiling. In the 
rear of that was the guard-room, low-ceiled, 
red-tiled, and cleanly enough. There spy and 
Cavalier laid down together. When to-morrow 
•came, where would they be lying then? They 
slept on the tiled floor the refreshing sleep of 



tired, healthy men. Whatever dream came to 
thein gave no token of to-morrow's doom. The 
Cavalier, waking in the chill gray of the morn- 
ing, saw the face .of the man he had left at the 
cottage last night. "Do not tell her, old friend," 
he said; hut he was too late — the man was gone. 

The sun rose that morning over that little 
world of England, looking upon no sadder sight, 
I think, than that of the fair young Bessie listen- 
ing to the story of Basil's capture. No tears 
were in her eyes ; dark linefe came underneath 
them; her mouth grew fixed and rigid; her 
hands were buried with a nervous clutch in the 
lapels of the forester's coat. She clung to him. 
desperately, as if he could help her, as ii"'" some 
way he could save Basil. He was to be tt-i$j' 
with the spy at high noon. Cromwell would be 
at the camp to-day— maybe, at the trial. He 
had been an old friend of her father's in that 
earlier, better time. Since then he had sat at 
their homely board — was friendly still, she 
knew. Why, this stern old Puritan had, caress- 
ingly, held her orf his knee, when she was a 
little child. If she plead for this Basil's life, 
would the grim old soldier remember her, and 
what had gone before? Let us hope he would 
for the day when memories of a better, quietci 
life could sway him were fast fading. In that 
after-time, when Naseby was to bo fought and 
won; when a king was to be dethroned — im- 
prisoned; when a scaffold was to grow in a 
night in the street opposite to AVhiteball, and 
the Royal Charles to lie there, with his fair neck 
upon the block; a man, with a nms't hnlHiiw 
the kingly head before the multitude, saying, 
"This is the head of a traitor!" it would be 
too late for memories then. Let us be glad, for 
Bessie's sake, that these days had not yet come. 

At noon the prisoners was led into the court, 
held in the long room through which they passed 
to their prison last night. A dark room, set 
round by dark, earnest faces. They were there 
for serious cause. The painful stillness was 
only broken by the clang against the oaken 
floor of a gaunt old soldier's sword, as he strodo 
to his place at a deal table, about which sat a, 
dozen warriors— grim men of iron, in leathern- 
jerkins, used to the din and smoke of battle, 
and loving its carnage better, in their Puritan 
hearts, than this quiet way of sending men down 
to their death. Relentless men, where duty 
was to be done; hardened by long years of civil 
war, and through believing that God hjj*l sent 
the 3word in their hands, to the end that they 
might restore the olive-branch; full of a strange 
superstition and religious enthusiasm, which 
made them bad judges and irresistible soldiers. 



LOVE AND LOYALTY. I8i) 



Crowding about the room were the people of ! leaving me a precious trust to his care. He 
the hamlets, all in eager sympathy with at least ; was with me through my long days of suffering 
one of the prisoners — Basil had played and ! and sorrow. He was no spy." " But a 
grown up with many of them. Between hall ! Royalist?" "Yes! loyal to his king and K> 
and hamlet there was little difference in those ! his manhood, which would not let him be a 
day. They loved him, every one, for his frank ) spy. Upon my soul, brave gentlemen, not a 
and manly ways; for his hardy, healthful youth -spy!" 

and comeliness; for all that he had been to ; Bravely spoken, little maiden! Yet these 
them in their some time want and pain. They 5 are stern, duty-loving men you address. They 



spoke low and excitedly together. "He, 
spy! Our Basil, of the hall, a spy!" and the 
speaker's voice rose high with indignation. A 
woman timidly touched his arm, and asked if 
she might stand beside him during the trial. 



see heroic faith and simple truth shining through 
your eyes; and they also see a maideu battling 
for her lover's life. The blush alone told them 
so much. The prisoner has looked up but once 
while she speaks. He sees the fine crimson 



She could see Basil from there, and he could 'mantling the cheek, and, with life gliding from 
not sec her. It was best he should not. But -him, be takes farewell of its sweetest hope and- 
hc would know all the same she was there. .': fairest dream. She has gone back to her place, 
After awhile she asked the man if ho would hold ':and the man gives her his arm to-lean upon — 
her hand the while. "I'm not strong to-day," J not so strong as when he gave her his hand 
she added, apologetically. He took her hand, .' awhile ago, She never looked away now from 
and held it in his strong, horny fingers, tenderly Ltho faces of the court. She will see their verdict 
as a woman. ^written in their iron visages before they have 

.Silence now, terrible in its intensity, reigned (spoken it. They confer together. Silence, awful 
throughout the room. The prisoners were to > and profound, reigns throughout the sombre 
be tried together, and were arraigned and called s old room. The grotesque faces in the wain- 
upon to answer to the specifications of the > scoting, stare forward, waiting for their verdict. 
charge of being spies of one Charles, against > Men breathe fast and heavily. They love this 
the honor and dignity of the commonwealth. Jyoungman; from his boyhood up he has been 
"How say you, Robert Sherwood and Basil > so noble, brave, and unselfish in his instincts; 
Underwood, guilty or not guilty?" J so true to them ; so observant ever of their rights. 

The spy, desisting for a moment from gnaw- { Something out of their own lives will be lost 
ing the nails of a dirty hand, slowly lifted his \ when his is forfeited. In dreadful stillness 
head, and looking toward the court, made an- 1 they await the verdict, and from all hearts an 
swot "Guiltjr!" ! unspoken prayer ascends for the prisoner. If 

'■SfM gtulty!"' Clear, earnest, and deep as J he would only speak it might not yet be too 
an organ-tone, fell upon the court — the answer Slate. 
of Basil Underwood. ; He rises slowly from his seat. Life is so 

The court proceeded to the evidence. Only ; sweet to him to-day. He will not lose it without 
this it was. This, a confessed adherent of him ; one poor effort. He craves the indulgence of 
called King Charles I., v.-as found at night, in jthe court — a moment only he will detain them, 
unfrequented ways, bearing company with his ; Permission to speak is, granted him. "You 
fellow prisoner, upon whose person were found ! know," he said, in a clear, musical voice, "that 
conclusive proofs of guilt. Nothing more. For ; what this maiden has just spoken is truth. 



the commonwealth, the case was closed. "Had 
the prisoner any witnesses to call in his de- 
fence?" Basil bowed his head on his hands, 



Where she left oft' I will begin. I had crossed 
your lines by paths unknown to your troops, 
and coming upon the high road, and being on 



and answered, "Nonel" Hope slipped the J my way to join the forces of the king," my master, 
leash in that moment, and was gone. At this ; was accosted by my fellow-prisoner here. From 
instant a girl made her way through the crowd, $ signs he gave me, I recognized him as being of 



and took her place beside the table of the court. 
Quietly, modestly she said, "I wish to be sworn 
on behalf of the prisoner." She was sworn. 
In a few simple words she accounted for Basil's 



the king's forces, but in what capacity I only 
guessed. Of what he knew, I nothing knew — 
he having communicated nothing to me. A 
moment after he found me, your troops were 



presence near the enemy's camp. "Such an : upon us. I therefore claim the rights and kos- 
old friend of father's and mine," she said, with ; pitality of a prisoner of rank taken in honor- 
woinnnly crimson covering cheek and brow. 5 able warfare, and as such, my life is not forfeit 
"My father died in his arms the night he came, < to the commonwealth." 



100 LOVE AND LOYALTYi 

A stir of pleasure, rising out of a hope that J to him amid the clash of steel, and the snort of 

the simple earnestness ofhis speech would save > bat tie-steeds; with sword in hand, leading heroic 

him, swayed the multitude. § legions to victory for good King Charles. But 

Again the court conferred together; then the ■: this death, away from the contested field, was 

prisoners were bidden to stand and look upon J a death a dog might die — not a man. Thus he 

the court. They did so. The hands of the i thought and wondered in bis mind, as he looked 

spy tremblingly wandered about his mouth; j: out over the hills and fields to where the old 

his eyes were bent upon the ground, and an ; church-tower rose, covered with its eternal 

awful pallor overspread his face. Doomed, and J verdure, brightened by greit masses of sunlight. 

afraid to die. There was a record of dark deeds ; Slowiy the day wor» en. An hour or more 

lying behind him, in those years gone. Death j before curfew Ee5Sie had one hope — she would 

touched him, and he trembled. His fellow- ; see Cromwell. fl.e :aust and would save Basil. 

prisoner was paler than since the trial began ; ! It was miles away to the camp. Then she 

but his face was the face of a man who had ; would seek him. Basil was not guilty; Crom- 

looked upon death often, and knew it was only \ well was just — it was his pride and boast that 

sleep. He knew of the pleasant vales of Eden — ! he was that. He should do justice — Basil should 

cf the better country beyond. The hand which J live. He could not die, for his life was hers; 

firmly held the chair before him was clear of J hers until the good God demanded it of her. It 

guilt; behind him no dark record lay open; 5 was not to be forfeit now. She knew that the 

immortality glowed within him. He stood upon ; stern old soldier should be just; ay, that was 

the shining shore, and the waves of death surging 5 the word — just. He" would be! 

toward him, gave him no terror. '< Just? There was yet to come the solemn, 

A war-begrimed soldier rises from his place ; awful spectacle of the scaffold in front of White- 

as spokesman, and reads in slow, dead tones, J hall, and royal Charles' head laying thereon. 

the finding and sentence of the court. "The s Yet this was to be when the grim soldier, Crom- 

prisoners at the bar are found guilty as to all J well, grew to his greatness. 

the charges and specifications upon which they ^ Through line after line of pickets she passed 

were arraigned, and the sentence of the court? on her way to the tent of the general; hig 1 

is, that they be taken from this place to a 5 resolve and noble purpose nerved her hear. 

place of confinement, and from thence to the 5 She would be strong to-day; steel-hearted, at 

square, in view of the quarters of the general j these bronzed warriors; steel-nerved, clear 

commanding, and there to be shot to death, at > brained to execute her purpose. 

the ringing of the curfew next ensuing; and 5 "It is for Basil," she said, as she stood before 

may God have mercy on their souls'!" i the spacious tent of the soldier, GEomwe"^ X> 

Bessie heard. A sharp cry of pain, as if a < either side stood the guard, as if but half o£t 
heart had broken, rang through the room. I; duty. "I would have speech with General 
Women wept, and wrung their hands; and men J Cromwell." "He is absent from the camp," 
went tearfully out into the air. They could > said a guard. "Yet he will be here before t lit 
not breathe there where death came so close to X curfew?" "He will come to-night; but no 
them. A few women gathered about the girl, •: before curfew." This from a grim-visageu 
and bore her to her home. Tho prisoners were 5 Roundhead, who, leaning on his halberd, re- 
led back to their prison — between them and ? gards the girl curiously. Her head was sunk 
death a few brief hours lay. To die at curfew! •: to her breast; her hands grope darkly on the 
Oh, God! how dear life had suddenly grown to 5 folds of her dress. That was the last hope, 
this young Cavalier. He did not think that his ? Only for an instant she feels the keen pain of 
heart could ever so tremble. His old mother J its loss, and then the sickening blindness of 
and father, when they knew? Why, he would 5 despair, arising out of her weakness to save 
never see them again, here— nor Bessie. Youth's ! the life dearer than her own, fills her brain and 
hopes were his then; he meant that she should J eyes. Slowly raising her head, she sees the 
one day be mistress of the hall and the broad ij guard yet regarding her with a look as nearly 
acres. They were to live their, lovers forever, >, akin to pity as any that ever visited his face, 
helping, nourishing Christ's poor, and little 5 She sees him; the other guards standing idly 
ones. A thousand times he had planned that. $ about; the long rows of tents; the standards; 
Last night only he had held her in his arms — i the glistening arms; and beyond them, to the 
had heard her voice in loving music. To-night — \ westward, the sun, sinking down in crimson 
to die! This death he had never dreamed of. ; glory behind the old tower, where swung the 
He might sometimes have fancied it would come f curfew-bell. It has been so many voiced to 



LOVE AND LOYALTY. 191 



her in all those years gone; from earliest child- < tower, for his step was slow, and it was a good 
hood 6ho and it have been such true friends. S mile off, and ere they reached it, it would be 
Only she, she fancies, knows all its tones, and J time for the curfew." Thus saying, he took up 
all their deep and solemn meaning. She recalls ; his hat and the keys, and walked beside her, 
how sad-voiced it was tkat day when its shadow ij along the path she had come. Slowly he began 
first fell above her mother's grave; how full of 1 lo understand what it was she required of him. 
comfort, too, seeming to blend pity in its tones s "There must bono curfew to-night! Here were 
for her loss, as if it knew and cared. She \ jewels and gold — a fortune for such as he; it 
remembers other days, when anger and strife 5 would make his old age bright, and free from 
were in her heart, how its mellow music softened $ thought and care. Besides, a dear life would 
away the bitter feeling. So often, in that hap- ? be saved to her. He would do it! He would 
pier time, it has summoned her to hear words 5 not sound Basil's death-knell! For the love of 
of helping grace and faith — words that cheered J the good God he would not do that! He roughly 
her life, and blessed the hours she lived. A1U pushed her bribe away; he assumed a stem 
this feebly passing through her mind as she v manner, and gruffly refused. What else coitfd 
watches the sun fading, slowly, surely fading, v he do? To the good cause of Christ, whom. he 
falling beyond the town. It is to be endowed 5 served under the great Cromwell, Basil was 
with a new voice to-night; to swing out from ^ a traitor and enemy. Not his enemy, else he 
its height in the gloom of the sky solemner J would have saved him. The old heart was 
words than it spoke ever before — words of ; tender, but Cromwell and his times cased tender 
death to the heart of the young Cavalier. v hearts in iron shells; and he refused her, even 

■She repeats slowly to herself the words of $ as they reached the foot of the great tower, 
the stern old guard, "He will be here to-night, } wherein, above them, hung the great bell, 
but' not till after curfew." Then, fires must J shrouded in the darkening sky. His hand 
blaze, and tapers burn with the stars to-nieht. ; was on the latch, and the oaken-door was 
The curfew shall not ring. She has jewels and 5 pushed open, when he turned to say some final 
coin with which the old verger may be bribed ' word to her, but she was gone, 
from his duty. If she plead with him, offered 5 As the door swung back from the old man's 
him these bribes, Basil might be saved — for s hand, an impulse, springing„out of defeated 
Cromwell would conic to-night; and Cromwell, ; purpose and hope beaten down, seized the mind 
for the sake of the old love he bore her father, ! of the girl. She looked upward within the 
would pardon Basil, if she asked it. She would s tower; but a few of the crumbling stairs could 
fall at his knees, and not be torn away till ho J be distinguished above, darkness covered them 
(Nk< pardoned Basil— and he would do it, hard 5 like a pall. With an awful shudder vibrating 
and"SSeM-as he seemed. She had passed the $ through every nerve, and the strength of her 
guard, and quickly, by the old mill-path, ap- 5 mind, heart, and soul, bent to a single thought, 
proached the verger's cottage. An old man, 5 she dashed past the old verger, and her feet 
quite deaf to sound of his own bell, or voice of 5 pressed the stairway into murky space, where 
priest, and almost blind now, his years had i before, for three centuries, no feet but hers had 
been so many; with only strength enough to ij trod. With her soul sickening within her, sus- 
ring the old bell on the tower, and build the i tained only by the hope that would not die, 
church fires, he was retained in his place more 5 she went upon her fearful flight, cheating death 
for past services than for present ones. He sat i of its victim, irresistible in her lovonnd daring, 
now on the broad stone at his door, smoking i as a fate standing between the comely Cavalier 
his pipe, his hat and the church-keys lying 5 and the grave that yawned to claim him. 
beside him. He had stood by the quaintly- $ A single line of blood-red was in the sky yet, 
carved font when she was held there in the i and the hour of curfew had come. About the 
priest's arms to be christened — such a wee tiny 5 door of Basil's prison stood a guard of solemn, 
thing then, a grand and graceful lady now, but $ earnest faces. They looked away silently to- 
mindful of him in her advancement. He had i ward the tower rising still and sombre against 
many things within the old cottage to remind ! the sky. They waited for the curfew as one 
him of her kindness since those first days of!: within, prayerfully kneeling on the tiled floor 
her babyhood. Too feeble-sighted to sec the >! of his cell, waited. They leaned upon their 
agony of her face, or to notice the excitement • fire-locks, liking not this shooting of a man in 
of her manner, the old man rose and bowed to $ cold blood. They wished in their hearts it was 
her quaintly as a cavalier. " She wanted speech 5 over, 
with him? Then she must follow him to the; As the verger touches (he dangling rope. 



102 LOVE AND LOYALTY. 

something falls to bis feet from the steps above. < its red fires gleam out in crimson belts of light 
•• A bit of the oaken stair," he says, picking it ; and warmth over the hills and low-lying vallies; 
up "Crumbling away together, we are; church S voices of men shout out a battle-by ran of the 
and verger alike growing old together." The ; Lord they serve. It is borne to her upon the 
ciil man forgets that the tower was a gray- i; winds in tones of unutterable sweetness, for 
beard of hundreds of years when he was yet a distance has robbed the thousand voices of all 
puling babe. "Not ring the curfew'" he mut- J coarseness. They read a fiery gospel, and en- 
tered. "Falso to-night in what I never once !; forced it with burnished steel, 
failed in before? Vet, she's a comely lass; and \ Her feet must not yet fail her, for her work 
he a good youth, and not a spy, either; but he > is not yet done. A few rods more, and the tent 
dies for the good cause." J of the warrior Cromwell will be reached. At 

Had his eyes been less dim, and the gloom s last she is there; the guards send the challenge, 
within the tower less dense, he might have \ and receive for reply, "A friend, who craves 
seen, far above him on the oaken stair, a woman 5 speech with the general, Cromwell." They make 
slowly ascending; upward, upward, over quick \ way for her, let her pass into the presence of 
and dead, her delicate hands pressing for sup- J the man she seeks. Let the day and the hour 
port, with horrible disgust and loathing, the $ be responsible for %vhatei(er was hard or cruel 
reeking, slimy walls; her strength almost gone; s in this man's career. A hard and cruel hour of 
but upward through paths of vermin-life, by $ anarchy and blood moulding the man into the 
which swarm noisome, poisonous reptiles, and s shape he was. What freer, fairer, more gener- 
uncouth shapes unknown to her, she toils on.-; ous youth than he once was in all England? 
Above her darkly hangs the bell; below, the 5 History sends back the answer — none. In her 
old verger stands ready to give it speech and s hour of greatest peril, Rome gave up her vested 
meaning, new and terrible. At last, she stands j! rights and sacred liberties into.tho hands of one 
on the narrow platform beneath it — can touch | man, and let him act the tyrant as he willec, 
its sides. It shall not speak those words of? so saved they the republic. It was England's 
death. Slowly it begins to move, her hands 5 day of sorest need when she recognized this 
seize, with the grasp of death, its ponderous i Cromwell as her saviour, and gave up to him 
tongue, and as the rope descends, she is swung i her rights and privileges — a soldier sworn for 
out into the black sky, hundreds of feet above { God and England. Great, masterful »blows he 
the undistinguished earth. Again, and again, s struck for them ; great wrongs^iie did in their 
and yet many times she sways to and fro with J names. But, let us believe- he did the best he 
the motion of the bell above the earth, and yet 5 knew; as'may others believe it of us, when our 
her hands are strong as iron, stronger than ? turn comes to be adjudged. Not that we pfi-H 
mortal hands, unnerved with love, could ever ? stride down the ages with kings and queens for 
be. To and fro, for the allotted time, the ver- s company, but that the least of us shall have an. 
ger swung the bell, and yet was the curfew s audience of critics one day coming, 
silent of its new voice and meaning, for love- $ He did not notice her, nor rise as she ap- 
nerved bands held fast its tongue, and made it i proached, as any cavalier would have done, 
dumb. Cromwell would come to-night, and, : ; An orderly stood in waiting, whom Cromwell 
bless God! the hour of curfew had gone by, and ; thus commanded: "Get you quickly to the cot- 
Basil lived. "He shall die at the ringing of \ tage of the old verger by the mill; tell him the 
the curfew, ' said the stern soldier judge; and, 5 hour of curfew is long since gone, and bring me 
in the solemn meaning of the sentence, till (hen $ answer why he has .not tolled the bell; weighty 
be cannot die. \ matters depend upon his duty being done" 

To the camp again, and there to wait and 5 She did not longer wait for him to give her 
wait till Cromwell comes. Dark shapes and j greeting, but said quickly, " You will not send 
fearful noises fill the air as she descends, but s this soldier on bis errand till I have speech with 
the lowermost stair is reached, the wide door J you? To me more weighty is the matter that 
grates again upon its hinges. She looks back $ I bring than can concern the tolling of that bell 
upon the hamlet and sees lights burning in \ to you. I come for justice, noble Cromwell; 
every window. There, too, is the prison, and ; yon hold in vile duress a prisoner of war, con- 
there, also, burn the tapers, though the stars 5 demned to death upon a charge of which be is 
fill the world with brightness. A dull, numb * not guilty. Hear from me the truth before you 
pain fills her limbs; her bands are dead; her J let that soldier go upon bis way." 
feet wander from the path, and her brain whirls i- "I'll hear you, maiden; soldier, wait without." 
in a dizzy trance. But yonder lies the camp, < The man withdrew; and the story, as she knew 



LOVE AND LOYALTY. 193 

it from Basil's defence, and of her own infor- t me, and you will link two hearts to you, by lies 
mation, she related to ihe chief. With what j of love, stronger than links of steel. Your vic- 
grace of speech it. sprang from her lips, till it j torious legions count their slain by thousands; 
seemed alive with heroic truth and beauty, I 1 ask but one poor life, it is dearer than my 

fain would attempt to portray, but dare not. own. You relent! You will pardon for the 

The soldier knew that what she spoke was dead father's sake, you will. You have eaten 
truth; that the man she loved could not lie. \ of his bread, and you dare not kill his child. 
Yet this Basil Underwood was one to fear; the { For the sense of justice that is eternal within 
peasantry around shout out a cause, whose holi- j you, you will give me back the life I crave." 
ness they could not see, for love of him. It ': Not a stern line of the war-worn face that 
would be well to have him removed; God accom- \ was not melted away. "If God's work were 
plished His good purposes by allowing evil to j only done; if it were work less bard and cruel 
triumph; so might he do this seemingly evil 
act that good to the cause might come. "He 
is a Royalist; if he dies not, maiden, (he good 
cause must suffer; so — he dies." Slowly he said 
it, like one making up his mind to a deed from 
which his soul revolted. But a great pity was 
on his face now. He remembered this girl, and 
her old father, too. Years and "years ago, be- 
fore the cause bad wakened him from peaceful 
ways, he and the girl's father had been friends; 
and he remembered he had permission given 
hi.. i, once from the baron, to shoot upon his 
preserves, and for many days he was the old 
forester's guest. How generous in their humble 
hospitality they were to him then! Let him re- 
member this, for upon him, too, is the shadow 



to do," he thought, as memories of that olden, 
happier time poured, like an avalanche, through 
his mind, moved by the force of the girl's words. 
A sad, old man even; weary of the leathern 
jerkin and the weighty sword. To redeem old 
England, yet not to see Ihe day ; He was not to 
pass over into that promised land. But his 
people did, and let us trust that from the heaven 
above us the grim old saint looks down and sees 
his work completed. 

He raised the girl to lWr feet, and placed his 
hands upon her head caressingly. In that far- 
off city of London he had a daughter, too, 
maybe he thought of her, and fancied he had 
done his work, and by his own hearth caressed 
her as "in that earlier day. It was to be. a long 
of death stealing, and ere long it will help his ; white before he saw her again; and when he 
soul upward that he forgot not these things. ■ did see her, he was a p/isouer, and in prison 
The girl came close to him. Either hand she ! she visited and ministered unto him. In these 
placed upon his wide breast. Low, steady- ; prison hours to come, it will bo good for him to 
voiced, calm as a star, she stood above him, i remember what he did this night. He sat down, 
r.;..d said, "You dare not do this thing. The I and on a bit of parchment wrote out a pardon 
good JTiiAteE whom we both serve, will not let \ for "one Basil Underwood, unrighteously held 
you do it. This man is innocent; upon my soul, ; under sentence of death as a spy; to be re- 
he is not guilty! Look through my eyes, down ': leased upon his parole of honor, not to absent 
into my heart's depths, and tell me if a spy \ himself, without leave of the oommanding gene- 
could there be throned and crowned. I do love % ral, from beyond the ancient landmarks and 
him; I love him for his noble soul, which knows : surveys of the hamlet of Underwood." He 
no taint of sin or shame; I love him for the :| placed it in her hands, only saying, "Take this, 
pure truth that dwells within his heart; I love ; that justice may be dene. You shall bear it to 
him that he is loyal to his king — the king that, [ his prison." 

in his mother's arms, he learned to say his ; She thanked him in only such words as full, 
nightly prayers for. Sec, ferave Cromwell! men > love-burning hearts can utter, and quickly 
fear but love you not. I'm here at your feet, i turned to the tent-door. He had not moved 
the whilom child you nursed upon your knee. \ since he gave her the parchment, but stood 
I kneel to you and ask for simple justice, and': with folded hands wistfully regarding her. He 
you deny me. I can recall the day and hour i- 6eemed not to hear her grateful words; nor to 
you held me to your breast, and whilst you; notice that, even as she thanked him, her gaze 
pressed a kiss upon my cheek, you said, 'God; was fixed upon the pardon, which she clutched 
be ever with you, little bairn, tenderly keeping \ with a grip of death-like tenacity ; that her eyes 
you and all your loves.' Oh, Cromwell! they ; seemed to devour it, not to see him at all. If 
are all dead but this one! Yesternight I saw > in that hour the awful shadow came near him, 
my father laid in his grave; my mother lay be- j it should have touched him then, for it was his 
side him there these many years dead. Brother > royal hour of life, the one in which his soul 
or sister have I none. Give this one back to; stood nearest to its Master. Her hand was 



*194 LOVE AND LOYALTY. 



raised to push aside the curtain at the door, : ; again fair as any lily of her native valley ; and 
when, in a voice, gentle as her own, he caUed ; health and beauty crowned her with their peren- 
hcr name. She turned toward him, and, as if! nial blossoms, and she grew in grace and come- 
their souls stood, for the moment, on the same ; liness. 

broad platform of eternal truth and humanity's S The happy, peaceful days had come again to 
love made perfect, she stretched out, her two : merry England. In the revolving years, the old 
bands toward him. J baron and his wife passed away to their long 

With painful slowness he spoke, and his man- : heme ; and the new baron, Basil, held, his court 
ner was that of a man gone blind in all the J in the hall of his ancestors, 
tenets of his faith, like one lost in a monstrous S Cromwell, too, has passed the day in which 
sea of doubts. "This is God's jvork?" ques- ; all his deeds were to be accounted for. They 
tioningly he said this, and then added, "I fear, < have been. His record is open only to his 
sometimes. Oh, God! if I have erred, show my \ Master, whom, let us believe, he served with 
feet the right way; I meant to be the servant < all the light there was within him. And let us 
of Thy will; lead me, thy servant." He bowed ; try to remember him as he stood that day 
lis head lowly before her, as if he saw in this | within the Parliament-House, his f3oe aglow 
child one nearer to his Christ than he, and said, i with fiery zeal, his drawn sword reflecting God% 
"Lay your hands upon me, child, and say, God t red sunshine, as he uttered these memorable 
save and bless thee, Cromwell." - Withj3tartled ; : words: "I have sought the Lord night and day, 
thought she looked up into his face, and- what ! that he would.rathcr slay me, than put me upoa 
.she saw there filled her heart with a great pity ! this work." Solemn words, these. Let us be- 
and tenderness for this man. She saw a great > Heve that this man felt them down to the depths 
and. god-like soul tossed and torn in a mael- 5 of his. soul;' that they were tho key-note to all 
strom , of' doubts and misgivings — a soul sick \ that jangled music, out of tune, that went before 
unto death, crying out with unutterable pathos j and after in his life. 

and yearning for light — light — light! > As the years went on, tiny feet and childish 

She laid her hands upon the bowed head, and \ voices echoed through the oaken corridors, 
slowly, reverentially repeated the words; then j These little ones added a new grace and radi- 
she sped away through the tented streets, and j ance to the' hall; among, them, was a kingly 
the picketed fields toward the prison, -where, J Charlie, and a Cromwell, too. In the loug 
beyond the tower and the bell, her lover was j gallery, where hung the family pictures, Basil 
held. She would be in time; the ground seemed 5 was wont to linger most over the latest portrait 
to fly beneath her feet; but at last the prison !• there. The little Cromwell of the hall, by 
was reached. She would not give the pardon J times observing this fancy of his father's, ques- 
to the old guard; she held it tightly clasped fn % tioned him regarding it. Then Ik.- toljl*iiim the 
her poor, bruised hands, while with a grim $ story of the picture, and the old bell in the 
smile he read it. He humored her whim, as 5 tower. For two hundred years, generation have 
who would not? So fair, and true, and brave » told it to generation, as the picture was handed 
she "was, the glamour of an heroic deed per- < down from one to the other. I have now told 
formed shone like a halo about her face. He ■ it to you, thus giving away our family story, 
led her to the room where, in the morning, Basil ) audit is ours no longer. But the picture is a 
had been tried, then released his prisoner, and > sweet poem to me forever. Its colors glow with 
brought him to her. "Now, maiden, you will; autumnal warmth, and have the depth of Faler- 
yield me up the parchment? The prisoner is * nian wine in antique vase. In the face above 
free." She placed it in the hands of Basil, J me, framed in its wealth of waving hair, there 
saying, "Give it you to the soldier. I have ^ are no sweet possibilities of love, of which it 
snatched it from the skies." J does not give assurance ; there is no home which 

Without understanding, he did as she bade \ it would not bless. Adorn your homes with pic- 
hiin, and' the soldier was gone. And now Basil i tures — they are civilizers. A picture on your 
held an unconscious form in his arms. When i walls, commemorating a loving, heroic deed, if 
its work was done, the tired body gave way; it J it is mellowed into immortal tones and tints of 
bad been sorely tried. She loved much, and for i beauty, as mine is, will be found an ezhaustless 
her love had dared 'and done much. To such i store of pleasure. But better than picture, 
much love is given. It was to her. A free man \ marble, or bronze, or aught else with which 
now, Basil carried her to an old dame's house, J to make beautiful your, home, is a wife, who, 
and there watched over her for many days. But j if she has not swung from curfew-tower to save 
when the weary watch was over, she bloomed J your life, would do it, if occasion required.. 



"CURFEW MUST NOT RING 
TO-NIGHT" 



BY 



ROSE HARTWICK THORPE 



Eras 






%*C 




Rose Hartvvick Thorpe and the Story of 




"CURFEW MUST NOT RING TO-NIGHT" 

England's sun was slowly setting o'er the hill-tops 

far away, 
Filling all the land with beauty at the close of one 

sad day; 
And its last rays kissed the forehead of a man and 

maiden fair, — 




He with steps so slow and weary ; she with sunny, 

floating hair; 
He with bowed head, sad and thoughtful ; she, with 

lips so cold and white, 
Struggled to keep back the murmur, "Curfew must not 

ring to-night." 



Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 

"'Sexton," Bessie's white lips faltered, pointing to the 

prison old, 
With its walls so tall and gloomy, moss-grown walls 

dark, damp and cold, — 



45 




"I've a lover in that prison, doomed this very night 

to die 
At the ringing of the curfew; and no earthly help is 

nigh. 
Cromwell will not come till sunset ;" and her lips grew 

strangely white. 
As she spoke in husky whispers, "Curfew must not 

ring to-night." 



46 



Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 




"Bessie." calmly spoke the sexton (every word pierced 
her young heart 

Like a gleaming death-winged arrow, like a deadly 
poisoned dart), 

"Long, long years I've rung the curfew from that 
gloomy, shadowed tower ; 

Every evening, just at sunset, it has tolled the twi- 
light hour. 

I have done my duty ever, tried to do it just and 
right : 

Now I'm old, I will not miss it. Curfew bell must 
rin» to-night !" 




Curfew Must Not Rise To-mcht 



47 




Wild her eyes and pale her features, stern and white 

her thoughtful brow ; 
And within her heart's deep centre Bessie made a 

solemn vow. 
She had listened while the judges read, without a tear 

or sigh, — 
"At the ringing of the curfew Basil Underwood must 

die." 



48 



Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 




And her breath came fast and faster, and her eyes grew 

large and bright ; 
One low murmur, faintly spoken, "Curfew must not 

ring to-night !" 
She with quick step bounded forward, sprang within 

the old church-door, 
Left the old man coming slowly, paths he'd trod so 

oft before. 



' ""tts 



• ■ : / ,, " , :."J 




k ; ' ; W 



Curfew Must Not Ring T<>-\u;ht 



49 




Not one moment paused the maiden, 

But, with check and brow aglow, 
Staggered up the gloomy tower, 

Where the hell swung to and fro; 
As she climbed the ^.liiny ladder, 

On which fell no ray of light, 
Upward still, her pale lips saying, 

"Curfew shall not ring to-night 1 " 



She has reached the topmost ladder ; o'er her hangs 

the great, dark bell ; 
Awful is the gloom beneath her, like the pathway 

down to hell. 
See! the ponderous tongue is swinging: 'tis the hour 

of curfew now, 



50 



Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 




And the sight has chilled her bosom, stopped her breath, 

and paled her brow. 
Shall she let it ring? No, never! Her eyes flash with 

sudden light. 
As she springs, and grasps it firmly: "Curfew shall 

not ring to-night !" 



Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 



51 




And the sexton at the bell-rope, old and deaf, heard 

not the bell, 
Sadly thought that twilight curfew rang young Basil's 

funeral knell. 
Still the maiden, clinging firmly, quivering lip and fair 

face white, 
Stilled her frightened heart's wild beating: "Curfeiv 

shall not ring to-night!" 



It was o'er, the bell ceased swaying; and the maiden 

stepped once more 
Firmly on the damp old ladder, where, for hundred 

years before, 
Human foot had not been planted. The brave deed that 

she had done 
Should be told long ages after. 



52 



Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 




As the rays of setting sun 
Light the sky with golden beauty, aged sires, with 

heads of white, 
Tell the children why the curfew did not ring that one 

sad night. 



Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 



53 



O'er the distant hills comes Cromwell. Bessie sees him; 

and her brow, 
Lately .white with sickening horror, has no anxious 

traces now. 
At his feet she tells her story, shows her hands all 

bruised and torn ; 




And her sweet young face, still haggard, with the 

anguish it had worn. 
Touched his heart with sudden pity, lit his eyes with 

misty light. 
"Go! vour lover lives," cried Cromwell. "Curfew 

shall not ring to-night !" 



54 



Rose Hartwick Thorpe and the Story of 




Wide they flung the massive portals, led the prisoner 

forth to die. 
All his bright young life before him. 'Neath the 

darkening English sky, 







Curfew Must Not Ring To-night 



55 



Bessie came, with flying footsteps, eyes aglow with 
lovelight sweet ; 

Kneeling on the tnrf beside him, laid his pardon at 
his feet. 

In his brave, strong arms he clasped her, kissed the 

face upturned and white, 
Whispered, "Darling you have saved me, Curfew will 

not rin? to-night." 




M U S IC CO PY I N G. 

NOTICE IS HEREBY GIVEN 7W /;,• i;rt,<r „f the 5 &6 Vic. Cap.46. Sic 3. 

£"»'''"''•! ™l«mrl<lrr/v>,fi„,A/,y,„„,„,.rr,/S 
1,1 unyot/vrprrm,, ,„„A;,«, ,, r h r„p,n „,H„.„I /!„■,*„„„.„„„ „/>/„. „„;/ mmr *CNK* niHSCLVES UABIE TOHUV, PCHAmtSOIt IUI1MCI 

llie ptau/mafum ol nymijlil smy* intofriurkya uilhmtprrmitnon n ** uhiawm comm. 
TO MISS OLIVE KENNETT. 



CURFEW MUST NOT R1NC Tn-NIHHT 



Words by 

ROSA HARTWICK THORPE. 



Music by 

STANLEY HAWLEY. 




l liJ SllltltV. I 

last rays kissed the forehead of a 



man and maiden fair,-Hewith steps so slow and weary;she with 




N. B. This poem is publish-! by arrangement with the Authoress. For musical adaptation it has been slightly altered. 
N°«. Re.itilion-Mnsic Series. 

Copyright MDCCCXCV by Robert Cocks &. C? 



so«ot» 






bowed head, sad and thoughtful* she with 

canlabile. 




lips so cold and 'white, [Struggled to keep back the murmur, Curfew must not ring to_ 

cdntabile. 




liexton,her white lips falteied, pointing to the prison old, With its 




walls so tall and gloomy, mossgrown 






&E 



walls, dark, damp and cold,— Ive a 




=fc£ 



£E 



nr. 
rol/ti parte. 



<&J> 



#<&<* 



* 



i 



lover in that pri son, doomed this 

1—9 



If*- 



5£ 



very night to die 



&L 



I 



4 



;«/" r/ tempo. 



IS 



<f» 



>r^-^__ *<BaT 



# <a^ 



N" <J. RiTitition-Mnsir Scrir 



3 



ringing 



ng of the Curfew; and no 




earthlj help is nigh. Cromwell 



'to! simile. 



will not co me till sunset; and her 

it ^T J -JU- 



mm 



:. 



lips grew strangely white, As sht 



i==£ 



wm 



j 



1 



f— t 



i^£ 



gF — s 



^ 



spoke in husky whispers, Curfew 
cnntabite 




Maiden,ealmly spoke the sexton (every 
ua tempo^, — 



*«» *cj» #<r» 

word pierced her young heart Like a 



% 



gleaming death wingdarrow,like£ 



I 



-85 



s 

3; 



/7» 



J* 



« 



M r r 



r.-d r r 



*j 



it 

deadly poisoned dartjLong,long 



i 



V=e 



years I ve r ung the curfew from that 



gloomy,shadowed tower; Every 




?E3jz 



^^ 



*/", 



i 



\r~ 



q : H^\ 



m 



^^ 



N°6.Recit»tii>ll-Miui<' Series. 



evening,just at sunset,ithas 



tolled 1 the twilight hour. I have 

ipi up. 



done my duty ever, tried to 




<Bi * <&> <&b simile. 

do it just and right: Now I'm old, I will not miss it. Curfew 




i 



night. She with 

oto/A? nY.v 



*n— '■) 



y 



®a * <w> * <aa *<&2> * 



quick, steps bounded_forward^prangwith in the old church door, Left the 

?\. ^ 



» i J j J 3=^ 



S 



s 



®^ 



E J •'riL^ 



S 



W J5 



i£ 



re 



mf 
poco piit mosso. 



31 



^ 



«==* 



5^2= 



cE> 



* iL * «o 



old man coming slowly, paths he'd 

iter— 



trod so oft before. Not one 




pp e soat: 



moment paused the maiden, But, with cheek and eye aglow. Staggered 




S?e. Recitation -Music Scries. 



up the gloomy tower, Where the 



belt swung to and fro.i 

1? 



As she 




climbed the slimy ladder, On which 



fell no ray of light, Upward 




N" •. Rocitjhou-Musij^Series . 



hour of curfew now, And the sighthas chilled her bosorn,stoppcl her breath,and paled her brow-Shall she 




let it ring? no, never! Flash her 



va Oassa. <&*> $j? 

eyes with sudden light, As she 




swung,- far out. The city seemed a 



5£ 



i-i 



# 



m * 



speck of light below,-There twixt 



n n 

L K dim: 



e 



mf 



poco meno. 



mm 



j /""■ L i 



i 



bt 



» 



^ 

m 



*<iL 



f- 



^ 



*fc to simi/< 



heaven and earth suspended. as the 






bell swung to and fro. And the 



^^ 



m 



± 



dim.- 



t r t t. 



^ 



^ 



f^ 



=£ 



"N?«. Recitation -Mii«if Series. 



20,80*. 



sexton at the b* rope, old and 



deaf,heard not the bell, S idl 



thought that t wilight curfew r ang her 




lovers funeral knell. Still the 



** -4.3- 



m 



maiden, clinging firmly,quivering 



lip and fair face winte,Stilled her 



^^ 



m 



h 



* ^4rA =m 



*w 






*""¥ 



m 



£ 



Pi 



r= 



frightened heart's wild beating: Curfew 



r ^ r 'r ^—^ ^T 



shall not ring to _ 

iff. 




/ill. ■ r mm - 



oer,the bell ceased swaying;and the 



^« 



maiden stepped once more,Where no 



^ 



ppM 

cankibih 



M 



human foot had trodden for some 




N*?6. Recitation -Music Series. 



20,309. 



Ji'er the hills came Cromwell, the maiden saw him; and her brow, Lately 




<liJ simile. 
white with sickening horror,has no anxious traces now.At his 



*&=£ 



feet she told her story,showed her 



mm 



-5P 



^ 



PP 



m£ 



f2 



?EF 



P e dotce. 

for 



5§E 



hands, all bruised and torn; And her 



§ 



^t=^ 



sweet young face, still haggard, with the 



H J 



s 



*T 



^ 



P" 



^^ 



P 



^^^ 



o 

ova hassa. 



heartwith sudden pity, lit his 



anguish it had worn, Touched his 



|, ss 'i j '7^rj = q - ift t 



eyes with misty light. Go! your 



I 



JP0CO S0Sf:pp 



mm 



it- 



'if a tempo. 



PP^S 



£ 



PWf 



w 



— o 



lover lives, cried Cromwell Curfew 
canlabilA. 






to _ night! 




N?6. Recitation -Mnsic Series 



30,80ft. 



LIBRPRY OF CONGRESS 

MHHHM 

015 871 TOsS 1 



